THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 


Novels  by  Isabel  C.  Clarke 

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THE  LIGHT 
ON  THE  LAGOON 


A     NOVEL 


BY 


ISABEL  C.    CLARKE 


NBW  YORK,    CINCINNATI,    CHICAGO 

BENZIGER  BROTHERS 

PUBLISHERS  OF  BKNZIGER'S  MAGAZINE 


COPYRIGHT,  1921,  BY  BBNZIGER  BROTHERS 


SRLF 
JIRL 


TO 
DEAR  ISABELLE  MACDONALD 

WITH  THE  AUTHOR'S  LOVE 


THE   LIGHT  ON   THE 
LAGOON 


CHAPTER  I 

LADY  FLOOD  had  for  some  time  past  observed 
symptoms  of  restlessness  in  her  elder  daugh- 
ter, Sydney,  although  with  her  natural  reticence — a 
quality  that  sprang  from  physical  indolence  rather 
than  from  any  moral  source — she  had  refrained 
from  commenting  upon  it  to  the  delinquent.  She 
put  it  down  to  the  War,  to  the  unusual  freedom 
Sydney  had  possessed  during  those  eighteen  months 
she  had  spent  in  a  private  hospital  for  soldiers  in 
Gloucestershire,  run  by  her  aunt,  Mrs.  Burgess. 
Sydney's  position  there,  had  been  no  higher  than  the 
rawest  or  raw  V.A.D.'s;  her  work  in  reality,  and 
in  default  of  more  highly  trained  material,  had 
been  that  of  a  skilled  and  efficient  professional 
nurse. 

Perhaps  the  narrow  bijou  house  in  Mayfair, 
where  Lady  Flood  lived  uncomfortably  in  order  that 
her  address  might  be  what  is  known  as  "good,"  ac- 
counted in  some  measure  for  the  sense  of  cramped 
confinement  that  so  assailed  Sydney  when,  after  the 
Armistice,  she  returned  to  its  shelter.  She  did  not 
complain,  for  she  too  could  be  reticent,  but  she 
felt  caged,  and  at  times  the  terrible  futile  mutiny  of 
caged  wild  things  shook  her  to  the  very  soul. 

Sydney  Flood  was  twenty-one  years  old,  and  was 

7 


8         THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

the  eldest  of  the  three  children  of  the  late  Sir  Brian 
Flood.  At  first  sight  she  did  not  appear  to  be  of  the 
stuff  of  which  rebels  and  pioneers  are  made.  She 
was  not  tall,  but  the  slenderness  of  her  figure  and 
the  smallness  of  her  head  gave  her  a  fictitious  look 
of  height.  She  had  very  thick,  pale,  almost  flaxen 
hair,  which  she  wore  "bobbed"  because  that  had  been 
more  convenient  when  she  was  nursing.  The  cutting 
of  her  hair  had  been  in  itself  a  profoundly  significant 
action.  It  was  perhaps  the  first  decisive  step  she  had 
ever  taken  without  consulting  her  mother.  But  the 
fair,  soft,  short  locks  suited  her  round  childish  face, 
and  gave  her  something  of  the  aspect  of  a  primrose. 
At  least,  so  Mr.  Duncan  Turner  was  reported  to 
have  said,  a  comment  that  in  due  course  reached 
Lady  Flood's  ears,  and  tended  to  mollify  her 
annoyance. 

Under  dark,  well-marked  eyebrows  Sydney  had 
quiet  gray  eyes,  set  wide  apart  and  of  singular 
beauty. 

Lady  Flood  disliked  the  "bobbed"  hair  because 
she  considered  that  it  made  her  daughter  look  quite 
absurdly  young  and  childish,  just  at  a  time  when  she 
had  no  further  right  to  either  of  those  qualities.  It 
accentuated,  too,  a  certain  air  of  innocence  and  won- 
der, suggested  by  the  grave  quiet  eyes.  Besides,  she 
felt  that  her  opinion  concerning  such  a  drastic  step 
should  have  been  dutifully  invited.  Sydney  to  take 
the  law  into  her  own  hands!  ...  It  was  her  first 
offense,  it  is  true,  but  it  seemed  to  denote  the  exist- 
ence of  a  mute  rebellious  spirit  never  before 
suspected. 

With  the  Armistice,  Lady  Flood  had  cherished  a 
not  uncommon  conviction  that  everything  and  every- 
body would  at  once  return  to  their  normal,  accus- 
tomed, and  appropriate  pre-War  niches.  Prices 
would  go  down,  and  dividends  and  the  value  of  se- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON        9 

curities  would  go  up.  Butter  and  sugar  and  ser- 
vants would  be  once  more  obtainable  commodities 
of  easy  and  regular  supply.  One  would,  perhaps, 
enjoy  a  slight  increase  of  material  comfort  to  com- 
pensate one  for  the  compulsory  austerities  of  those 
wretched,  harassing,  heart-breaking  years.  .  .  . 

Lady  Flood  could  look  back  upon  those  four 
years  with  the  complacent  conviction  that  she  had 
done  her  duty.  She  had  surrendered  Sydney  at  the 
age  of  nineteen  to  her  sister-in-law,  Mrs.  Burgess,  a 
wealthy  woman  of  determined  character,  who  had 
been  one  of  the  first  to  turn  her  country  house  into 
a  hospital  for  wounded  soldiers,  at  the  outbreak  of 
war.  It  could  not  be  said  that  Lady  Flood  had 
approved  of  the  step,  but  Mrs.  Burgess  had  said 
emphatically :  "What  nonsense,  Lavinia !  Why 
should  you  keep  Sydney  at  home  when  we  want 
every  pair  of  capable  hands  we  can  find?  She's  not 
your  daughter  any  longer — she's  a  national  asset!" 
Actuated  by  an  obscure  sense  of  patriotism,  Lady 
Flood  yielded,  comforting  herself  with  the  thought 
that  Mrs.  Burgess  would  undoubtedly  exact  the 
maximum  of  hard  and  strenuous  work  from  Sydney. 
It  would  do  her  good — take  her  away  from  eternally 
mooning  over  her  painting,  wasting  time  and  ma- 
terials in  the  process.  Of  course,  she  was  far  too 
young,  inexperienced,  and  unskillful,  to  do  any 
actual  nursing,  but  she  would  have  floors  to  scrub, 
plates  and  dishes  to  wash.  Then  had  come  an  epi- 
demic of  measles.  Most  hospitals  were  understaffed 
in  consequence;  there  were  not  enough  nurses  to  go 
round.  Mrs.  Burgess,  who  had  a  real  liking  for 
Sydney,  turned  to  her  in  an  hour  of  need.  The  girl 
responded.  She  showed  great  aptitude  for  nursing, 
she  was  conscientious,  and  never  forgot  an  order. 
She  had,  moreover,  the  rare  gift  of  being  able  to 
eit  up  at  night.  In  less  than  a  week  after  the  out- 


io       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

break  of  measles,  Sydney  was  put  on  regular 
night  duty.  One  could  count  upon  her,  Mrs.  Burgess 
said.  Her  mother  didn't  really  know  what  was  in 
her.  She  had  a  head  on  her  shoulders,  despite  that 
childish  unformed  look  of  hers.  .  .  . 

Lady  Flood  was  secretly  slightly  irritated  when 
portions  of  these  eulogies  reached  her  ear.s.  She  had 
never  imagined  that  Sydney  would  be  a  success,  still 
less  that  she  would  be  placed  in  any  important  posi- 
tion of  trust.  The  fact  struck  her  as  slightly  absurd. 
Probably  her  services  had  been  exaggerated.  She 
was  thankful  that  Moira,  her  second  daughter,  was 
too  young  to  be  caught  up  into  the  insidious  dangers 
of  war  work.  Moira  was  barely  eighteen  at  the 
time  of  the  Armistice.  Jack,  the  only  son,  had  been 
a  child  at  a  preparatory  school  at  the  outbreak  of 
the  War.  He  was  a  bright,  humorous,  daring 
creature  who  regretted  his  youth,  but  from  the  first 
declared  his  intention  of  entering  the  Navy.  Lady 
Flood  watched  the  years  of  conflict  go  by,  with  a 
subtle  anguish.  They  surely  couldn't  be  prolonged 
sufficiently  for  Jack  to  take  part.  .  .  .  But  the  day 
came  when  as  a  midshipman,  full  of  hope  and  cour- 
age, he  vanished  into  the  mists  of  the  North  Sea. 
Lady  Flood  spent  hours  of  inconceivable  anxiety 
during  that  last  year  of  the  War.  There  had  been — 
she  had  noticed  it  from  the  first  with  superstitious 
shrinking — such  a  fatality  about  "only  sons."  He 
had  come  back  to  her  safe,  it  is  true,  but  his  boyhood 
had  gone  forever.  She  could  hardly  believe  that 
this  grave-faced,  stern  man  was  Jack.  He  reminded 
her  of  his  father,  who  had  died  within  a  year  of 
his  birth. 

Lady  Flood  loved  Moira  and  Jack  with  something 
of  passion.  She  had  never  cared  so  much  for 
Sydney,  yet  she  expected  her  to  be  a  loving  and  duti- 
ful daughter.  Like  many  women  of  her  class  and 


generation    she    confidently   counted   upon    reaping 
where  she  had  not  sown. 

Although  people  and  things  did  not,  after  the 
signing  of  peace,  settle  down  to  their  ancient  condi- 
tions with  that  celerity  for  which  Lady  Flood,  in 
common  with  many  others,  had  hoped,  the  six 
months  that  had  passed  since  the  gray  November 
day,  which  stood  out  as  a  blur  of  shining  light  and 
brought  the  relief  of  the  Armistice  to  a  war-rent, 
war-sick  world,  had  not  been  fruitless  or  uneventful 
for  her  little  household.  Moira  had  become  engaged 
at  the  age  of  eighteen  to  Lord  Wanley,  rich,  bril- 
liant, charming,  one  of  the  heroes  of  the  War,  and 
limping  still  from  a  severe  wound.  He  was  every- 
thing that  the  most  fastidious  and  ambitious 
mother  could  desire  for  a  favorite  and  beloved 
daughter.  .  .  . 

No  doubt  it  was  trying  for  Sydney,  three  years 
older  and  still  unwed,  to  see  her  brilliantly  lovely 
younger  sister  married,  so  to  speak,  on  the  very 
threshold  of  her  career.  It  might  account  for  some- 
thing of  that  subdued,  controlled,  yet  perceptible 
restlessness  observed  by  Lady  Flood.  During  the 
brief  period  of  Moira's  engagement  Sydney  was 
silent  and  listless,  yet  her  mother  felt  certain  that  she 
was  not  indifferent  to  the  changes  that  were  taking 
place.  She  spent  hours  in  her  attic-studio,  making 
"daubs,"  as  Jack  irreverently  called  what  was  to 
Sydney  the  one  terribly  serious  thing  now  left  to  her 
in  life.  At  the  hospital  she  had  felt  being  parted 
from  her  art  almost  bitterly,  but  she  had  accepted  it 
as  an  essential  renunciation  in  an  age  of  renunciation, 
when  youth  was  giving  of  its  best  and  age  of  its 
dearest  in  a  passion  of  sacrifice.  But  now  at  home 
once  more,  leading  a  life  that  suddenly  seemed 
empty  and  aimless  and  leading  no-whither,  Sydney 
sought  relief  in  the  art  that  had  never  failed  her. 


12       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

and  began  to  feel,  too,  that  it  was  slowly  reasserting 
its  ancient  tyranny  upon  her  life. 

Lady  Flood  felt  annoyed;  she  had  hoped  that  "all 
that  nonsense"  had  perished  during  those  months  of 
strenuous  hospital  work.  But  she  concealed  her 
annoyance  because  other  things  were,  just  then,  so  ex- 
ceptionally gratifying.  She  took  comfort  in  Moira's 
delicious  freedom  from  moods  and  melancholies. 
Moira  was  radiantly  happy;  delighted  alike  with  her- 
self and  with  Lord  Wanley.  She  was  triumphant 
in  her  success,  and  perhaps  a  little  hard  and  self- 
centered  in  consequence,  and  because  her  own  affairs 
were  just  then  so  enormously  and  thrillingly  inter- 
esting. It  was  a  pity,  she  thought,  that  Sydney 
should  show  so  little  sympathy.  It  was  useless  to 
descant  to  Sydney  upon  the  thrills  and  ardors,  the 
general  bliss  of  being  engaged.  But  as  sisters  they 
had  never  been  intimate.  Jealous  perhaps  ?  Jealous 
or  not,  that  ugly  label  was  freely  affixed  to  Sydney's 
withdrawals. 

Certainly,  Sydney  was  not  happy,  but  even  by  dint 
of  much  soul-searching  she  could  not  discover  that 
in  any  one  particular  she  envied  Moira.  Frankly, 
she  did  not  want  for  herself  the  immense  interest 
and  adulation  that  were  at  that  moment  so  concen- 
trated upon  her  sister  by  all  their  little  entourage, 
just  as  if  Wanley's  attitude  had  infected  every  one  in 
the  vicinity  with  its  immeasurable  ardor.  Nor  could 
she  find  that  she  envied  Moira  for  having  become 
possessed  of  this  fine  and  agreeable  specimen  of 
cultivated  English  youth.  But  there  was  something 
in  the  spectacle  or  Moira's  strange  new  freedom 
that  pierced  her  heart  like  an  arrow.  To  be 
free!  .  .  . 

It  was  through  Sydney  that  Wanley  had  first  come 
to  the  house.  They  had  met  at  a  country  house  in 
December.  Wanley  had  come  down  for  a  week, 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON       13 

after  being  discharged  from  hospital.  He  had 
liked  Sydney,  perhaps  detecting  the  nurse  in  her. 
Some  little  thing  went  wrong — he  hit  his  leg  acci- 
dentally opening  the  wound — and  there  was  some 
consternation  because  the  local  doctor  could  not 
come  immediately.  Sydney  came  forward  and 
bound  up  the  limb  with  skillful  tender  hands.  He 
was  eagerly  grateful  and  sufficiently  attracted  to 
suggest  a  further  meeting  in  town.  Subsequently  he 
came  to  call,  and  found  Lady  Flood  at  home,  and  not 
Sydney,  but  Moira.  Sydney  was  pretty  in  an  incon- 
spicuous way;  you  passed  her  by  perhaps  only  to 
remember  afterwards  the  haunting  beauty  of  her 
eyes.  But  Moira  was  not  a  person  who  could  have 
passed  unobserved  anywhere.  She  was  tall,  fair  and 
graceful,  with  hair  of  burnished  gold,  and  wide  blue 
eyes.  She  had  a  laughing  mouth,  a  flawless  skin,  and 
dimpled  cheeks.  At  that  first  meeting  she  swept 
Wanley  abruptly  off  his  feet.  Not  a  week  later  he 
called  for  the  second  time  and  invited  her  to  marry 
him.  Moira  hesitated,  realizing  that  something  of 
lasting  importance  was  at  stake.  She  liked  Wanley. 
She  liked,  too,  all  that  she  had  heard  of  his  courage, 
devotion  to  duty,  and  cool  fortitude.  Lady  Flood 
gently  set  before  her  the  more  material  advantages  of 
such  an  alliance.  They  became  engaged,  and  Sydney 
vanished  into  the  background.  Wanley,  passionately 
preoccupied  with  his  beautiful  fiancee,  had  almost 
forgotten  her  existence.  .  .  . 

Lady  Flood  had  never  doubted  that  her  second 
daughter  would  marry,  and  marry  well.  The  only 
point  upon  which  her  future  had  offered  doubt,  lay  in 
the  choice  she  would  make.  But  Lady  Flood,  an 
experienced  worldly  woman  with  hunting  instincts, 
had  felt  certain  almost  from  her  daughter's  cradle 
that  she  would  do  her  credit  in  this  matter.  Like  a 
practiced  mariner  she  could  detect  currents  and 


i4       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

changes  that  were  unperceived  by  less  observant  and 
well-trained  eyes.  Moira  was  everything  that  Syd- 
ney was  not.  In  a  room  she  compelled  attention  as 
a  sudden  ray  of  sunlight  will  cause  people  to  blink 
their  eyes  and  gaze  in  the  direction  whence  it  comes. 
Yet,  there  was  nothing  conspicuous  about  Moira 
except  her  beauty.  She  never  seemed  to  desire  to 
attract  attention.  She  was  there,  and  people  drifted 
towards  her  as  they  might  have  done  towards  a 
beautiful  flower.  Lady  Flood  watched  her  with  a 
kind  of  delighted  wonder. 

But  with  Sydney  things  were  very  different.  No 
one  ever  noticed  her,  and  few  remembered  her.  She 
was  inured  to  forgetful  or  inattentive  eyes.  She 
could  have  had,  if  she  had  wished,  a  kind  of  vicari- 
ous glory  reflected  from  Moira's  indubitable  luster, 
but  she  was  at  once  too  proud  and  too  timid  for  that. 
She  did  not  desire  to  succeed  in  the  way  Moira  suc- 
ceeded. She  had  the  artist's  characteristic  aloofness, 
the  discriminating  faculty  that  prefers  the  few  to  the 
many.  She  had  felt  amazed  sometimes  at  her  sis- 
ter's graceful,  facile  sweetness  towards  unmitigated 
bores.  Moira's  smiles  fell  alike  upon  the  just  and 
the  unjust,  the  clever  as  well  as  the  stupid.  It  was  a 
charming  trait  and  accounted  for  her  popularity  at 
school  as  well  as  in  society.  "Such  a  contrast  to  poor 
little  Sydney,"  people  used  to  say  with  a  shrug  that 
held  something  of  contempt  as  well  as  of  compas- 
sion. But  poor  little  Sydney  was  accustomed  to 
being  a  shadow  in  the  background.  She  might  have 
been  robed  in  invisibility,  for  all  the  notice  people 
took  of  her. 

"What  does  Sydney  do  with  herself?"  Wanley  in- 
quired one  day,  suddenly  realizing  what  an  unimpor- 
tant position  his  future  sister-in-law  occupied  in  the 
little  household. 

"Oh,  she  paints.     She's  got  a  studio  at  the  top  of 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON       15 

the  house.     A  north  attic — too  cold  to  be  used  as  a 
bedroom,"  was  Moira's  reply. 

"I'd  like  to  see  some  of  her  work,"  said  Wanley. 

"Oh,  she'll  be  delighted  to  show  it  to  you,"  said 
Moira.  "She  studied,  you  know,  before  the  War. 
They  used  to  think  her  clever  and  promising." 

After  luncheon  that  day  Moira  and  Wanley 
climbed  up  to  the  studio  at  Sydney's  invitation. 
Wanley  showed  a  real  interest,  criticizing  frankly, 
yet  showing  a  discernment  that  rendered  his  sever- 
est speeches  innocuous  of  sting.  Sydney  was  very 
diffident  about  her  own  work;  she  was  always  re- 
luctant to  show  it. 

Wanley  got  up  at  last,  flung  away  the  end  of  a 
half-smoked  cigarette,  and  said: 

"I  should  like  Moreton  Cochrane  to  see  your 
work,  Sydney.  He's  an  uncommonly  good  judge. 
People  think  a  lot  of  his  opinion." 

Moreton  Cochrane — the  art-critic — the  connois- 
seur of  pictures,  who  did  not  hesitate  to  assign 
cinque-cento  paintings  to  a  different  hand  from  those 
ascribed  to  them  in  guide-books  ?  Sydney  knew  him 
well  by  name.  She  was  astonished  that  Wanley 
should  think  highly  enough  of  her  work  to  wish 
for  Cochrane's  opinion  upon  it. 

She  was  silent,  and  he  said  quickly:  "But  per- 
haps you'd  rather  not?  It  was  only  a  suggestion — 
I  thought  you  might  like  it." 

"Oh,  but  I  should  like  it  very  much  indeed,"  said 
Sydney,  flushed  and  eager.  "Only,  I'm  afraid  it 
isn't  of — of  sufficient  importance." 

"Well,  we'll  let  Moreton  be  the  judge  of  that," 
said  Wanley,  good-naturedly. 

She  was  evidently  modest  about  her  own  powers, 
yet  a  patient  industrious  worker.  He  felt  a  re- 
newed interest  in  her.  His  thoughts  flew  back  to 
the  day  when  she  had  dressed  his  wound  with  such 


16       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

competent,  capable  hands.  He  owed  her  a  good 
turn  for  that — it  had  led  him  so  surely  to  his  pres- 
ent transcendent  happiness.  He  linked  his  arm  in 
Moira's  as  they  went  downstairs  together. 

"What  did  you  really  think  of  it,  Wan?"  said 
Moira. 

"Well,  I  can  hardly  say.  1  can't  tell  if  it's  very 
good  or  very  bad.  But  I'm  quite  sure  it's  one  or 
the  other.  Moreton  will  soon  tell  us." 

Moreton  Cochrane  had  been  extremely  useful  in 
helping  him  to  enrich  the  already  beautiful  collec- 
tion at  Rocksworth,  his  place  in  Yorkshire.  Hadn't 
he  put  him  in  the  way  of  securing  a  small  but  won- 
derful silver  chest,  richly  chased  and  ornamented 
with  figures,  that  was  an  undoubted  Cellini?  Coch- 
rane's  flair  for  the  genuine  and  excellent  was  with 
him  a  kind  of  sixth  sense,  and  if  he  had  turned  it 
to  professional  use,  who  could  blame  him?  Besides, 
it  would  be  doing  Sydney  a  good  turn.  Wanley 
liked  Sydney,  with  her  self-effacing  tranquillity,  her 
complete  renunciation  of  the  first  place.  But  he 
did  not  know  her  at  all,  and  sometimes  he  wondered 
if  that  renunciation  had  been  quite  as  easy  and  sim- 
ple a  thing  as  on  the  surface  it  seemed.  Whether, 
in  fact,  it  hadn't  been  produced  with  almost  physical 
pangs.  It  couldn't  be  quite  easy  for  one  girl  to 
look  on  and  see  another  step  in  and  take  all  the 
prizes.  Not  that  he  counted  himself  in  the  least 
as  a  prize,  for  he  was  inherently  modest,  but  he 
had  learnt  enough  about  the  Flood  household  to 
know  that  Moira  was  ever  the  one  to  move  in  the 
lime-light.  Sydney  was  a  mere  onlooker.  Did  she 
feel  her  position?  Was  she  even  aware  of  Lady 
Flood's  impatient  indifference?  Did  she  ever  stop 
to  analyze  her  own  situation?  He  had  ventured  to 
say  something  of  the  kind  to  Moira  during  their 
brief  engagement,  but  her  reply  only  taught  him 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       17 

that  Sydney's  rather  curious  position  was  taken  for 
granted.  Custom  had  simply  crystallized  it.  "Dear 
old  Sydney !  Of  course  we're  all  devoted  to  her," 
Moira  had  said  with  her  gay,  rippling  laugh.  "But 
she's  never  cared  much  for  going  out.  I  think 
she  was  only  too  thankful  when  I  was  old  enough 
to  go  instead  of  her." 


CHAPTER  II 

MOIRA'S  wedding  took  place  just  before  Lent,  in 
the  first  days  of  March,  and  was  celebrated 
with  something  of  pre-War  splendor.  Sydney 
found  herself  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  quite  alone 
with  her  mother.  She  had  long  ago  realized  how 
far  apart  they  were,  so  that  the  prospect  seemed  to 
her  almost  terrifying.  Approach  was  so  difficult 
that  one  did  not  attempt  it.  One  just  filled  the 
breach  with  platitudes,  and  the  usual,  idle  home- 
chat  that  fortunately  finds  a  place  even  in  the  most 
estranged  families. 

The  eventful  day  passed  like  a  dream.  Sydney 
remembered  afterwards  without  bitterness  how  en- 
tirely she  herself  had  been  overlooked  and  neglected 
at  the  wedding  reception.  She  was  a  bridesmaid  be- 
cause Lady  Flood  had  willed  it  so;  she  had  even 
chosen  dresses  of  hydrangea-blue  georgette  because 
it  suited  Sydney,  to  the  disgust  of  Wanley's  sister, 
Charmian,  who  had  black  hair  and  an  olive  skin. 
All  through  the  day  Sydney  found  herself,  half- 
unconsciously,  memorizing  pictures  of  Moira. 
Moira  engaging  every  one's  attention  during  the 
early  hours  of  the  morning;  tearing  up  and  down 
the  narrow  staircase  in  a  shimmering  white  rest- 
gown  with  all  her  golden  hair  hanging  loose  about 
her  shoulders;  bending  over  the  trunks  that  were 
stuffed  with  wonderful  costly  things;  rushing  up  to 
her  mother  and  kissing  her  impulsively.  .  .  .  Then 
Moira  in  her  cloth-of-silver  wedding-dress  and  a 
sheaf  of  lilies  in  her  hand,  and  Wanley's  pearls  en- 
circling her  throat.  .  .  .  Moira  standing  before  the 

18 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       ig 

altar  in  St.  George's,  Hanover  Square,  making,  as 
it  seemed  to  Sydney,  impossible  promises.  .  .  . 
Moira  still  beautiful,  but  a  trifle  subdued,  leaving 
the  church;  .  .  .  standing  to  receive  the  guests  in 
the  tiny  crowded  room.  Moira  going  away  in  a 
dark  blue  dress  with  a  wonderful  sable  coat — more 
subdued  still,  and  kissing  her  mother  lingeringly  and 
Sydney  coldly.  .  .  .  Something  of  fear  and  wonder 
and  yet  of  great  joy  in  her  eyes.  Moira  vanishing 
into  a  motor  with  Wanley.  "Lord  and  Lady  Wan- 
ley  subsequently  left  London  for  Paris,  en  route  to 
Cairo,  where  the  honeymoon  will  be  spent." 

"And  now,"  said  Mrs.  Ingram,  an  elder  sister 
of  the  late  Sir  Brian  Flood,  going  up  to  Sydney  and 
bestowing  upon  her  a  bristly  kiss,  "you  will  have 
to  console  your  mother,  my  dear,  for  all  she  has 
lost  to-day.  You  know,  she  feels  this  parting  with 
darling  Moira  fearfully,  although,  of  course,  she 
always  knew  it  must  happen  sooner  or  later.  I'm 
sure  you  must  see  how  necessary  it  is  for  you  to 
stay  at  home  and  be  a  comfort  to  her  until  the 
time  comes  for  you  to  be  married  yourself,  Syd- 
ney— if  it  ever  does  come  !" 

"Yes,  Aunt  Letty,"  said  Sydney.  Her  face  was 
quite  unmoved.  Yes — that  was  what  they  were  all 
saying,  at  least  those  who  had  any  thought  for  her 
at  all.  She  could  almost  hear  them  telling  one  an- 
other: "She's  got  her  elder  daughter — that's  one 
comfort.  Sydney's  not  likely  to  marry.  And  it's 
her  duty  to  stay  and  look  after  her  mother.  With 
Moira  married  and  Jack  at  sea — "  That  was  how 
one  was  caught  in  a  web,  and  shown  how  wicked 
it  would  be  to  try  to  escape.  Marriage  was  dif- 
ferent. But  if,  for  instance,  you  wished  to  leave 
home  and  study  and  devote  your  life  to  Art,  you 
were  soon  shown  how  unfilial  such  an  ambition  must 
necessarily  be. 


20       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

Sydney  went  down  to  the  drawing-room  that  day, 
after  the  departure  of  the  guests — those  relations, 
connections,  friends  and  enemies  of  both  parties,  who 
had  been  herded  there  in  conditions  of  almost  gro- 
tesque discomfort  for  two  miserable  hours,  chanting 
Moira's  praises  and  forgetting  altogether  to  notice 
herself.  She  could  not  remember  that  any  one  had 
spoken  to  her,  except  Mrs.  Ingram,  whose  admoni- 
tory speech  had,  however,  seemed  significant  of  a 
prevailing  sentiment. 

The  room  was  empty  when  the  girl  entered  it; 
the  windows  were  open,  the  soft  airs  of  an  unusu- 
ally warm  March  evening  poured  in;  and  outside, 
a  streak  of  very  pure  crimson  painted  the  western 
sky.  In  the  distance,  up  the  long  street  that  ran 
at  right  angles  to  her  home,  Sydney  could  see  the 
glimmer  of  young  green  grass  in  the  Park.  The 
murmur  of  traffic  struck  its  familiar  note;  she 
thought  the  sound  was  a  friendly  one,  not  too  loud, 
but  rhythmic,  companionable. 

Already  the  servants  had  restored  the  furniture 
to  its  customary  place,  had  swept  away  the  inevitable 
disorder  and  debris.  Lady  Flood  had  retired  to 
her  room  after  the  strenuous  exertions  and  emotions 
of  the  day.  She  would  probably  rest  until  dinner- 
time, and  perhaps  shed  a  few  tears  over  Moira's 
departure. 

Sydney  walked  up  and  down  the  L-shaped  room 
restlessly.  Her  small  pale  face  was  set,  and  de- 
spite the  childish  bobbed  hair  she  looked  almost 
stern.  She  was  suffocating  with  a  sense  of  imprison- 
ment. Mrs.  Ingram's  words  echoed  unpleasantly 
in  her  ears.  Outside,  the  dull  little  gray  street  was 
being  swallowed  up  in  the  delicious  blue  dusk  of  a 
spring  evening;  the  crimson  streak  had  faded  out 
of  the  sky.  Just  below  the  window,  a  street  lamp 
burned  spectrally.  The  color  of  the  London  twi- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       21 

light,  its  enchanting  blues,  browns  and  purples,  de- 
lighted Sydney,  despite  the  melancholy  of  her  pres- 
ent mood.  People  passed  along  the  pavement  below 
the  window  .  .  .  shadows  in  a  world  of  shadows. 
Tu  e  ombra  e  ombra  vedi.  .  .  .  She  thought  of 
Moira  journeying  towards  France.  Folkestone — 
the  sea- — and  to-morrow  France,  the  pale  North,  the 
burning  Midi,  all  alight  with  color,  the  sea  again — 
Egypt,  the  white  mosques,  the  desert  lying  under  an 
empty  sky.  .  .  .  She  seemed  to  follow  their  jour- 
ney with  her  eyes.  But  she  only  envied  Moira  be- 
cause of  her  power  to  go  away,  to  shape  her  life 
anew.  Moira,  three  years  younger  than  herself, 
had  achieved  this  miracle.  No  officious  aunts  would 
dare  dictate  to  her  or  admonish  her  now,  or  in- 
form her  where  her  duty  lay.  Only  Wanley  had 
any  right  to  do  that,  and  Wanley  was  at  her  feet, 
worshiping  her. 

Suddenly  the  door  opened,  and  the  grating  voice 
of  Wright,  the  manservant,  struck  across  the  silence. 

"Mr.  Turner,  if  you  please,  miss,"  he  said. 

Then  he  went  back  to  the  kitchen  and  informed 
the  cook,  who  was  his  wife,  that  he  should  not  be 
surprised  if  Miss  Sydney  and  Mr.  Turner — 
.  .  .  "One  wedding  makes  many,"  he  darkly 
prophesied. 

"Now,  Wright,  don't  you  be  romantic,"  said  his 
wife,  a  capable  person,  engaged  in  stirring  some- 
thing in  a  saucepan.  "Once  I  don't  say  but  that 
mighter  been.  But  'er  leddyship  'ull  look  'igher 
than  any  Turners  now,  seeing  that  Miss  Moira's 
married  a  lord!" 

The  subject  of  this  profane  discourse  was  at  that 
moment  standing  near  the  drawing-room  window  by 
Sydney  Flood's  side — a  slim,  dark,  rather  bullet- 
headed  young  man  with  sleek  well-brushed  hair  and 
a  determined  mouth  and  chin.  His  face  was  al- 


22       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

most  typically  legal;  he  was,  in  fact,  a  rising  young 
barrister. 

He  had  come  quickly  up  to  Sydney  and  had  shaken 
hands  with  her.  Surprised  and  rather  baffled  at  her 
silence,  it  yet  did  not  occur  to  him  that  he  had  in- 
terrupted a  dream. 

She  roused  herself. 

"Had  you — left  anything  behind  ?  You  were  here 
to-day,  were  you  not?" 

"Yes,  I  was  here."  His  voice  held  a  note  of 
not  unnatural  annoyance,  for  surely  she  might  have 
remembered  that.  He  had  spoken  to  her,  and  he 
flattered  himself  that  his  appearances  in  the  little 
house  were  not  quite  unwelcome  to  the  elder  Miss 
Flood.  Was  she  perhaps  only  simulating  forget- 
fulness?  But,  no,  he  could  not  apply  even  that  oint- 
ment to  the  scratch  she  had  inflicted.  Sydney,  when 
she  did  speak,  was  always  quite  sincere.  She  never 
juggled  with  words  and  phrases.  She  seemed  to 
compel  a  like  sincerity  and  frankness  from  her  in- 
terlocutors. When,  therefore,  she  alleged  forget- 
fulness  as  to  whether  he  had  been  present  that  aft- 
ernoon or  not,  he  must  bear  the  thrust,  knowing 
that  it  held  at  least  no  malicious  intent. 

"You  were  in  the  clouds  as  usual,"  he  said,  smil- 
ing, but  with  a  slight  edge  of  satire  in  his  voice. 

"I  suppose  I  was,"  she  admitted.  "Did  it  all 
seem  very  strange  to  you  this  afternoon?  To  me 
it  was  almost  incredible !" 

"No;  I  thought  it  exactly  like  all  other  functions 
of  the  kind.  A  trifle  more  highly  colored,  perhaps, 
shall  we  say?  Moira  being  as  she  is,  and  Wanley 
being  so  preposterously  wealthy  and  handsome,  one 
could  hardly  expect  anything  else.  Otherwise  it  was 
only  a  tiresome  repetition  of  one  of  the  most  boring 
ceremonies  that  can  possibly  exist — for  the  onlooker 
bien  entendu!" 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       23 

"Boring?"  She  lifted  wide  interrogative  eyes 
to  his.  "But  that  isn't  surely  the  effect  it  has  upon 
most  people?  They  all  seemed  so  excited — so  en- 
thusiastic— even  tearful !" 

"One  expects  a  few  conventional  tears  from  the 
bride's  mother  if  she  has  anything  of  the  early- 
Victorian  left  in  her.  Lady  Flood  still  possesses  a 
lingering  aroma  of  that  eminent  period!" 

"Mamma  bore  it  pretty  well — better  than  I  ex- 
pected. You  see,  she  adores  Moira." 

"She  had  the  screaming  envy  of  every  woman  pos- 
sessed of  a  marriageable  daughter  in  the  room,"  he 
observed  dryly;  "no  doubt,  that  increased  her  forti- 
tude." 

He  sat  down  near  the  window,  and  Sydney  sat 
on  a  low  chair  opposite  to  him.  There  was  no  light 
in  the  room,  and  the  only  illumination  came  from  the 
street  lamp  outside,  which  gave  to  Sydney's  blond 
head  an  almost  frosty  radiance.  Duncan  Turner 
thrummed  his  long  fingers  on  the  wooden  edge  that 
projected  above  the  panel.  He  had  attractive  hands, 
Sydney  thought,  slender  but  very  strong-looking. 
Presently  she  became  aware  that  his  eyes  were  upon 
her.  Dark  brown,  and  slightly  quizzical  in  expres- 
sion, they  gave  her  no  hint  of  what  was  coming. 

"Since  Lady  Flood  exhibited  such  extraordinary 
fortitude  to-day,  shall  we  put  her  courage  to  a  fur- 
ther test?"  he  inquired,  always  in  that  slightly  ironi- 
cal tone  which  he  seldom  seemed  able  entirely  to 
dispense  with. 

His  right  hand  strayed  out  and  touched  Sydney's. 
She  tried  to  draw  hers  away,  but  found  it  held  se- 
curely as  if  in  a  steel  vise. 

"No,  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  go  until  you've 
answered  me!  You  are  quite  capable  of  bolting, 
Sydney.  You  look  like  a  frightened  deer  sometimes. 
Now  what  are  you  going  to  say  to  me?" 


24       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

"I — I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  And  please 
let  me  go."  Her  hand  lay  in  his,  limp  but  very 
still.  He  knew  that  his  touch  was  powerless  to 
quicken  her  pulse. 

"I  am  merely  asking  you  to  marry  me,"  he  said. 
"I  fear  I  did  not  make  it  quite  clear." 

She  looked  at  him  quite  gravely.  The  faint  illu- 
mination from  the  street  showed  her  his  face  in  a 
Rembrandtesque  effect  of  darkness  and  soberly  sub- 
dued light.  He  was  not  good-looking;  his  head 
was  too  round,  his  skin  too  dark,  his  nose  too  long, 
his  lips  too  thin.  She  had  known  him  about  a  year; 
during  that  time  he  had  come  pretty  frequently  to 
the  house,  but  never  on  terms  of  any  intimacy.  And 
now,  this  man — almost  a  stranger  to  her — wished 
to  marry  her.  He  held  her  hand  fast,  lest  she 
should  escape  without  giving  him  an  answer.  She 
felt  awkward,  self-conscious,  wondering  what  she 
should  do  if  some  one — her  mother  perhaps,  or 
Wright — should  suddenly  come  into  the  room. 

"1  can't  marry  you,"  she  said  at  last,  aware  that 
he  was  waiting  in  some  suspense. 

Duncan  Turner  smiled;  he  was  evidently  not  dis- 
concerted. He  was  not  a  boy  like  Wanley — he  was 
a  man  of  thirty,  and  he  looked  more  than  his  age. 
Three  years  in  the  trenches  had  sobered  him.  He 
knew  exactly  what  he  wanted  from  life,  coupled  with 
a  firm  resolve  to  obtain  it. 

Sydney  thought  inconsequently  of  Wanley  and 
Moira  going  forth,  as  it  were,  upon  a  joyous  ad- 
venture. A  boy  and  girl,  playing  at  love,  at  the 
serious  things  of  life.  Moira  eighteen,  and  her  hus- 
band four  years  older.  Sydney  had  felt  ancient  be- 
side them.  Her  thoughts  had  strayed  away  from 
Duncan,  who  had  now  released  her  hand  and  sat 
there  with  folded  arms,  regarding  her  thoughtfully. 

"That  is  an  absurd  answer,"  he  said  at  last.     "If 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       25 

you  won't  marry  me,  at  least  tell  me  why.  Do  you 
dislike  me?" 

"Oh,  no  !"  Common  civility  prompted  this  eager 
denial.  "I — really  rather  like  you,"  she  added,  with 
an  honesty  that  had  a  singular  power  to  wound  him. 

His  face  was  wry,  as  he  swallowed  the  bitter 
draught  thus  innocently  offered. 

"Even  that  is  better  than  a  little  aversion,"  he 
said.  "The  liking  is  quite  a  good  beginning — it 
might  grow,  stimulated  by  a  slightly  more  ardent 
feeling  on  my  part.  Not,  I  should  imagine,  to  any 
extraordinary  heights  of  passion,  but  sufficiently  for 
you  to  tolerate  me  as  a  husband." 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  don't  think  I  want  to 
be  married,"  she  said. 

This  astonished  him.  "It  didn't  hurt  you,  then, 
to  see  your  younger  sister  married  first?" 

"I  know  that  was  what  I  was  expected  to  feel. 
But  I  wasn't  hurt.  I  only  envied  Moira  her — her 
freedom." 

"Freedom?" 

"Yes.     I  want  most  frightfully  to  be  free  !' 

"But  why  on  earth,  my  dear  Sydney?"  He  was 
genuinely  puzzled,  yet  aware  that  he  was  encoun- 
tering some  obscure  form  of  feminism. 

Her  answer  was  ready  and  perfectly  simple. 

"To  paint!" 

She  had  never  uttered  this  secret  desire  to  any 
one  before.  Even  now,  she  could  not  quite  under- 
stand why  she  had  told  Duncan.  Perhaps  it  was 
because  his  evident  love  for  her  made  him  patient 
and  sympathetic.  Perhaps  it  was  because  she  wished 
to  show  him  that  she  wasn't  crying,  like  a  child,  for 
the  moon,  but  for  something  that  was  actually  ob- 
tainable .  .  .  only  it  was  wicked  and  undutiful  to 
wish  for  it. 

Duncan  saw  his  opportunity. 


26       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

"But  I  am  offering  you  freedom,"  he  said.  "If 
you  married  me  you  could  paint  as  much  as  you 
chose." 

"Could  I?  But  perhaps  I  should  have  other 
things  to  do,  and  you  would  blame  me,  then,  for 
neglecting  them." 

"I  should  never  blame  you."  He  was  aware 
that  he  was  making  progress,  though  of  a  difficult, 
doubtful,  ambiguous  kind.  "I've  never  been  one  to 
think  that  women  ought  to  be  cooped  up,  silenced, 
denied  all  opportunity  of  self-expression.  Yes,  Syd- 
ney, if  I  can  give  you  nothing  else,  I  can  give  you 
the  freedom  to  paint — to  study  your  art.  .  .  ." 

He  had  no  fear  now  that  she  would  wish  to  es- 
cape, to  leave  him.  He  was  making  headway,  al- 
beit almost  imperceptibly.  And  she  was  so  doubly 
attractive  in  this  mood,  somber,  tinged  with  rebel- 
lion, smarting  under  restraint,  pulling  against  the 
curb.  She  was  ordinarily  so  calm,  so  pale,  so  self- 
effacing,  that  this  unexpected  wildness  of  youth  in 
her,  this  longing  to  be  free,  fascinated  him.  He 
watched  her  with  attentive  eyes. 

"I  believe  that  I  could  teach  you  to  love  me,"  he 
said  rashly. 

"I  could  never  be  in  love — as  Moira  was  with 
Wanley." 

"There  was  certainly  an  element  of  calf-love  in 
their  mutual  adoration." 

"So  you  don't  love  me  like  that?"  she  was  quick 
to  ask. 

"It  would  be  difficult  to  say  exactly  how  I  love 
you.  But  I've  loved  you  for  a  long  time — nearly 
a  year,  1  think.  Ever  since  I  came  home  on  leave 
that  last  time.  And  you  were  so  unconscious,  Syd- 
ney. Almost  cruel  in  your  unconsciousness !" 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said,  touched  at  the  little  ad- 
mission. She  could  catch  something  of  pain  in  his 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       27 

words.  So  he  had  loved  her — even  before  Wanley 
had  loved  Moira.  She  had  seen  him  grave,  re- 
served, apt  to  be  bitter  or  satirical  when  he  did 
speak.  Always  cold  and  self-contained.  Once  or 
twice  she  had  thought  he  regarded  her  as  a  child, 
extending  a  kind  of  tolerant  contempt  towards  her. 
And  all  the  time  he  had  loved  her.  She  longed  to 
ask  him  why.  There  was  nothing  in  her  to  love. 
Yet  this  love  of  his,  unreturned,  unwanted,  had  al- 
ready created  between  them  a  kind  of  intimacy.  It 
had  endowed  him  with  sympathy  and  understanding, 
and  she  had  been  able  to  speak  freely  and  candidly 
to  him  of  her  secret  ambition. 

"You'd  really  let  me  study — give  up  my  life  to 
it?"  she  asked. 

"Yes,  if  you  wished  it."  There  was  a  shade  of 
reluctance  in  his  tone.  "As  long  as  you  wished  it, 
dear  Sydney." 

"You  mustn't  think  it's  a  passing  craze,  as  I'm 
sure  Mamma  does.  It's  something  in  me — the 
realest  part — something  that's  starved  and  hungry." 

For  a  second  his  hand  touched  hers,  lightly,  as 
if  in  compassion. 

"Well,  my  dear,  I  shouldn't  let  you  feel  starved 
or  hungry." 

"Wouldn't  you  really?" 

But  he  would  claim  her,  surely.  There  would 
be  moments  when  he  would  even  detest  that  rival 
that  so  separated  them.  She  saw  this,  and  added: 

"It  wouldn't  be  fair  to  you.  No  man  could  marry 
a  woman  on  such  terms  I" 

"Oh,  let  me  be  the  best  judge  of  that!  Do  you 
suppose  happiness  is  to  be  had  for  nothing?  The 
gods  demand  a  sacrifice !"  His  voice  was  warm 
and  passionate;  he  seemed  to  her  then,  curiously 
changed,  full  of  earnestness  and  rough  power.  Then 
he  went  on  in  a  more  matter-of-fact  tone:  "Sydney, 


28       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

we've  discussed  this  enough,  now.  Let's  go  back 
to  the  original  proposition.  Will  you  marry  me?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  now.  You  must  give  me  time 
to  think  it  over.  It's  all  been  such  a  surprise  to 
me,  and  just  when  I  had  made  up  my  mind  that  I 
should  never  marry." 

"All  right — think  it  over.  I'll  give  you  till  to- 
morrow. What  I've  promised  holds  good,  remem- 
ber." 

She  could  not  be  deaf  to  that  ring  of  hope  in  the 
little  speech.  He  would  take  her  on  those  terms — 
on  any  terms.  Yet,  she  shrank  a  little  away  from 
him.  It  seemed  a  shame  to  accept  so  much  love 
from  any  one  and  to  give  them  nothing  in  return. 
He  was  such  a  stranger,  but  a  kind  and  discerning 
one.  He  wouldn't  shackle  her  hand  and  foot,  and 
bolt  all  the  doors  and  all  the  windows. 

She  hoped  he  would  not  let  himself  be  influenced 
by  anything  her  mother  might  say.  Across  the  si- 
lence that  followed,  she  could  almost  hear  Lady 
Flood  saying:  "Paint?  What  ridiculous  nonsense! 
Thank  goodness  my  girls  have  no  need  to  earn  their 
own  living.  Sydney  has  a  pretty  little  talent  when 
she  chooses  to  take  pains."  That  was  another  ma- 
ternal cold  douche  of  fairly  frequent  application. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of?"  asked  Duncan. 

"I  suppose  I  should  have  to  study  in  London, 
as  you  live  here?"  she  asked,  simply. 

He  looked  exultant.  Evidently  she  was  already 
weighing  the  pros  and  cons.  He  had  a  man's  be- 
lief in  things  "righting  themselves."  But  he  only 
said  slowly: 

"Yes,  I'm  afraid  I  shouldn't  be  unselfish  enough 
to  let  you  live  abroad.  But  in  the  summer  we'd  do 
just  what  you  like." 

He  rose.  They  had  been  talking  all  this  time 
in  the  darkened  room,  with  only  that  wan,  uncer- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       29^ 

tain  illumination  from  the  street  lamp  to  shed  any 
light  upon  their  faces.  She  went  to  a  table  and 
switched  on  an  electric  lamp.  They  stood  for  a 
moment  facing  each  other  in  silence. 

"Then  you'll  let  me  come  to-morrow?  When 
shall  I  find  you?  And  perhaps  you'd  better  say 
something  to  your  mother,  hadn't  you?" 

"Come  at  tea-time.     We  are  sure  to  be  alone." 

"Good-by,  dear  Sydney,"  said  Duncan,  and  bend- 
ing over  her  hand,  he  kissed  it  almost  with  rever- 
ence. 

She  watched  him,  almost  with  relief,  as  he  went 
out  of  the  room. 

It  was  indeed  a  strange  ending  to  a  very  strange 
day.  .  .  . 

I 


CHAPTER  III 

THE  sense  of  relief  Sydney  experienced  when  the 
figure  of  Duncan  Turner  withdrew,  caused  her 
a  quick  pang  of  dismay.  She  contrasted  it  with 
Moira's  passionate  lamentations  if  compelled  by  the 
exigencies  of  fate  to  be  parted  from  Wanley  for 
a  whole  day.  But  Sydney  comforted  herself  with 
the  reflection  that  she  could  never,  never  feel  like 
that.  She  was  always  happiest  alone.  Every  one 
— even  people  you  were  really  very  fond  of — tired 
you  if  they  stayed  too  long.  And  she  wasn't  made 
— as  Moira  obviously  was — for  the  heroine  of  a 
romance.  If  she  really  decided  to  marry  Duncan 
Turner,  and  she  had  by  this  time  almost  made  up 
her  mind  to  do  so,  it  would  be  a  very  prosaic  affair 
indeed. 

Lady  Flood  had  taken  her  to  tea  one  afternoon 
at  his  flat  near  the  Marble  Arch.  It  was  a  pleasant, 
comfortable  place,  with  some  good  furniture  and 
prints,  and  an  immense  quantity  of  books.  Dry- 
looking  legal  books  of  course,  but  plenty  of  novels, 
poems  and  plays,  too.  She  had  noticed  French  and 
Italian  books,  as  well  as  English  ones.  They  had 
seemed  to  throw  a  pleasant  light  upon  his  hours  of 
recreation  and  solitude.  He  was  getting  on  well 
at  the  Bar,  and  could  now  afford  a  tiny  cottage  near 
some  golf  links  on  the  Sussex  coast,  where  he  often 
spent  the  week-end.  That  would  be  her  life,  too. 
Quite  dull  and  unromantic,  like  that  of  so  many 
other  women.  Just  enough  love,  just  enough  money, 
Just  enough  of  everything.  No  superfluity  any- 
where. .  .  . 

30 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       31 

She  thought  of  Moira  traveling  towards  the  golden 
sun  and  sands  of  Egypt.  "A  trifle  more  highly 
colored," — yes,  that  exactly  described  it.  She,  Syd- 
ney, could  never  have  fitted  into  that  extraordinarily 
ornate  frame.  She  wasn't  even  sure  that  she  needed 
a  frame  at  all.  .  .  . 

She  must  weigh  the  matter  carefully,  make  quite 
certain,  to  avoid  any  mistake.  For,  perhaps,  de- 
spite Duncan's  assurances,  she  would,  by  marrying 
him,  only  exchange  one  form  of  servitude  for  an- 
other, more  exigent,  more  permanent.  If  she  mar- 
ried him,  holding  him  to  the  letter  of  his  bargain, 
it  would  necessarily  involve  the  censure  of  all  her 
own  little  world.  And  she  might  prove  too  weak 
as  well  as  too  conscientious  to  fight  against  them 
all.  She  would  bury  her  brushes  and  paints  just 
as  other  women  had,  in  the  past,  buried  or  burnt 
their  manuscripts-. 

She  was  in  the  drawing-room  that  evening,  after 
a  rather  silent,  melancholy  dinner  with  her  mother, 
when  she  ventured  to  broach  the  subject. 

"Mamma,  Duncan  Turner  came  this  evening  be- 
fore dinner,  after  you  had  gone  upstairs  to  rest. 
He  asked  me  to  marry  him." 

Lady  Flood  bestowed  upon  her  daughter  a  sharp, 
shrewd  glance.  Well,  it  was  perhaps  as  good  a 
match  as  she  would  be  likely  to  make.  Still,  she 
might  have  waited.  .  .  .  With  the  Wanley  connec- 
tion she  might  even  have  secured  a  younger  son. 
One  of  those  fortunate  younger  sons  destined  to  in- 
herit the  wealth  of  their  mother.  .  .  . 

"And  what  did  you  say?"  she  inquired,  looking 
at  Sydney's  pale,  unmoved  face. 

"He  is  coming  back  to-morrow  at  tea-time.  I 
thought  we  should  probably  be  alone.  I  shall  give 
him  an  answer  then." 

"You  mean  to  marry  him?"  asked  Lady  Flood. 


32       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

"I'm  not  quite  sure  yet.     But  I  think  so.  .  .  ." 

"I  never  thought  you  cared  about  him,"  said  Lady 
Flood,  touching  unawares  a  vital  spot. 

"Must  one  care  a  very  great  deal?"  said  Syd- 
ney, fingering  some  work.  The  rose-shaded  electric 
lamp  near  her  cast  a  glow  on  her  face  and  hair, 
and  she  looked  almost  beautiful,  in  a  quiet,  spiritual 
way. 

"It  depends  upon  what  you  mean  by  'caring,' ' 
said  Lady  Flood,  preferring  to  evade  the  question. 
"He  is  rather  sarcastic  and  cynical,  but  I  am  sure 
he  will  make  a  good  husband.  Not  too  exacting, 
and  very  steady  and  industrious.  They  think  most 
highly  of  him  at  the  Bar." 

These  remarks,  uttered  with  a  studied  carelessness, 
showed  Sydney  that  her  mother  had  already  given 
due  reflection  to  the  subject  in  hand.  It  had  evi- 
dently been  no  surprise  to  her. 

Sydney  went  on  with  her  work  in  silence,  bending 
her  head  over  it,  so  that  her  face  was  scarcely 
visible. 

"Of  course,  if  you  had  waited  a  little  you  might 
have  done  much  better,"  said  Lady  Flood.  "Moira 
has  done  so  well  for  herself,  and  at  her  house  you 
will  meet  all  kinds  of  people." 

"I  would  rather  not  owe  anything  to  Moira," 
said  Sydney. 

Lady  Flood  felt  exasperated.  Such  a  proud,  un- 
bending spirit  was  fatal  to  the  success  of  any  girl. 
She  wondered  if  Duncan  had  discerned  it.  She  let 
her  thoughts  dwell  upon  Duncan.  A  very  clever 
young  man  who  had  done  great  things  at  Oxford, 
and  given  a  good  account  of  himself  also  in  the 
trenches  of  Flanders.  .  .  .  She  was  thinking  of  how 
she  would  announce  her  daughter's  engagement  to 
listless,  indifferent  dowagers,  praising  Duncan's  un- 
doubted abilities.  She  could  not  expect  to  score 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       33 

such  a  real  triumph  as  Moira's  marriage  had  been, 
a  second  time.  .  .  . 

"Well,  Sydney,  I  hope  you  will  think  it  over  very 
carefully.  You  haven't  given  yourself  much  time 
in  which  to  make  up  your  mind.  But  I'm  glad  you 
told  me  about  it.  Put  out  the  cards,  my  dear;  a 
game  of  poker-patience  will  rest  me." 

Sydney  put  aside  her  work  and  drew  out  the  card- 
table,  setting  it  between  her  mother  and  the  fire. 
For  the  next  hour  she  played  game  after  game  of 
poker-patience.  She  was  a  miserable  player.  Lady 
Flood,  who  liked  to  win,  was  at  last  annoyed  at  the 
poverty  of  Sydney's  defense. 

"Not  a  single  straight  flush!"  she  said,  glancing 
contemptuously  at  the  rows  of  cards  in  front  of  her 
daughter.  "I  can't  think  what  induced  you  to  throw 
away  that  heart !  It  was  the  very  card  I  was  wait- 
ing for.  I'm  afraid  you  didn't  give  your  full  at- 
tention to  the  game,  but  under  the  circumstances  I 
suppose  it's  excusable.  Moira  was  a  brilliant  player 
— I  could  hardly  ever  beat  her."  She  glanced  at 
the  clock.  "They  are  at  Folkestone  now,  dear 
things.  I  hope  it  will  be  calm  for  their  crossing 
to-morrow.  Moira  isn't  at  alk  a  good  sailor." 

She  sighed,  realizing  that  she  was  going  to  miss 
Moira  even  more  than  she  had  imagined.  It  was 
Moira  who  had  brought  life  and  color,  youth  and 
laughter,  into  the  little  London  house.  It  would 
be  a  trifle  dull  now  with  only  Sydney,  for  Jack  was 
so  rarely  at  home.  Moira  had  been  a  fluent,  witty 
talker,  able  to  make  ridiculous  stories  from  all  her 
small  happenings  and  experiences. 

Sydney  put  the  cards  away.  Then  she  said  des- 
perately : 

"I  wanted  to  say  something  to  you,  Mamma." 

"Yes?     What  is  it,  my  dear?"' 

"If  you  think  you  would  mind  my  marrying  and 


34       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

going  away  so  soon  after  Moira — if  it  would  leave 
you  too  much  alone — I  can  tell  Duncan  that  I've 
decided  not  to  marry  him." 

Lady  Flood  stared  in  amazement.  Such  an  altru- 
istic suggestion  could  only  mean  one  thing,  that 
Sydney  was — as  she  had  feared — wholly  indifferent 
to  Duncan  Turner. 

She  said  rather  sternly: 

"You  must  not  think  of  any  inconvenience  that 
might  accrue  to  me  through  your  marriage.  A 
mother  has  no  right  to  stand  in  her  daughter's  way. 
Don't  you  want  to  marry  him?  I  should  never 
dream  of  forcing  you  into  a  marriage  that  was  dis- 
tasteful." 

"I  do  want  to  marry  him — for  some  reasons," 
said  Sydney,  looking  puzzled.  She  had  an  impulse 
then  to  explain  the  whole  situation  to  her  mother, 
but  on  second  thought  the  futility  of  such  a  pro- 
ceeding deterred  her.  It  was  no  use  explaining 
things  to  people  who  would  not  or  could  not  under- 
stand. 

"You  are  tired  to-night — you've  had  a  very  ex- 
citing day.  No  doubt,  Moira's  marriage  has  un- 
settled you.  Duncan  Turner  certainly  chose  the  psy- 
chological moment  to  ask  you  to  be  his  wife." 

"Do  you  mean  he  pitied  me  for  being  a  failure  ?" 
asked  Sydney,  fixing  her  straight,  direct  glance  upon 
her  mother.  There  was  an  unconscious  but  almost 
peremptory  demand  for  truth  in  that  gaze. 

"Of  course  I  didn't  mean  that.  But  he  may  have 
thought  quite  naturally  that  the  events  of  to-day 
were  in  his  favor,  your  thoughts  being  directed  to- 
wards marriage — the  marriage  of  a  sister  several 
years  younger  than  yourself." 

Yes,  they  were  all  trying  to  make  her  feel  the 
sharpness  of  that  edge,  little  dreaming  that  it  had 
not  the  slightest  power  to  hurt  her.  Moira  and 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       35 

Wanley  were  stars  of  another  sphere,  destined  to 
trace  a  coruscating  orbit  across  this  gray  work-a- 
day  world.  They  were  too  successful;  they  pos- 
sessed too  much;  one  could  not  think  in  those  ex- 
aggerated terms  of  happiness  and  wealth.  They 
were  a  trifle  abnormal,  and  did  not  fit  into  any 
scheme  of  life  within  Sydney's  experience.  Moira 
had  always  been  the  charming,  indulged  child  of 
the  house,  yet  perhaps  Sydney  had  disappointed 
them,  too,  by  her  want  of  success,  socially  speak- 
ing, her  inability  to  covet  even  the  kind  of  reward 
that  had  fallen  to  Moira's  share,  and  by  her  imme- 
diate readiness  to  stand  aside  and  let  her  sister 
take  the  front  seat.  She  had  eagerly  surrendered 
her  birthright,  demanding  nothing  in  exchange,  at 
least  in  so  far  as  they  were  able  to  discover.  .  .  . 

"But  I'm  very  glad  that  Moira  has  married  Wan- 
ley,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  accent  of  sincere  enthusi- 
asm in  her  voice.  "That  needn't  imply,  however, 
that  I'm  dying  to  get  married  myself,  because  I'm 
not." 

"Still,  I  gather  that  you  intend  to  accept  Duncan," 
said  Lady  Flood. 

"If  I  do,  it  will  be  because  I  think  my  marriage 
will  give  me  certain  things  1  can't  have  here." 

"What  things  ?"  Lady  Flood's  curiosity  was  now 
strongly  stimulated,  and  Sydney  seemed  in  an  unusu- 
ally communicative  mood.  She  felt  that  it  would  be 
useful  to  draw  her  out. 

Sydney  had  always  puzzled  her  by  her  reticence, 
her  withdrawals,  her  indifference  to  the  ordinary 
pleasures  of  youth.  Sometimes  she  had  felt  a  wish 
to  penetrate  into  the  thoughts  that  dwelt  behind 
that  grave  brow.  Mrs.  Burgess  had  once  declared 
that  Sydney  had  astonished  her  by  her  grit,  her^  en- 
ergy, her  initiative.  They  were  certainly  qualities 
that  had  never  revealed  themselves  in  her  home  char- 


36       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

acter.  She  had  always  been  obstinate  and  silent 
even  as  a  small  child,  but  she  had  never  displayed 
energy  nor  force  of  character.  Yet,  sometimes 
when  Lady  Flood  had  made  an  attempt  to  draw 
nearer  to  her  daughter,  she  had  instinctively  re- 
treated. She  had  had  an  almost  superstitious  feel- 
ing that  something  unpleasant  might  await  her  if 
she  persisted,  something  eruptive,  volcanic,  of  ele- 
mental violence.  Let  sleeping  dogs  lie!  .  .  . 

To-night,  however,  she  had  no  such  fear.  Syd- 
ney was  perfectly  calm.  One  could  approach,  al- 
ways with  caution,  but  without  fearing  to  be  en- 
veloped in  a  sudden  flame  of  destructive  passion.  .  .  . 

"I  think  it  will  give  me  greater  freedom  to  study 
painting,"  said  Sydney  simply.  "That  is  the  only 
thing  I  really  care  for." 

Lady  Flood  looked  a  little  aghast.  For  a  long 
time  the  subject  had  never  been  mentioned.  She  re- 
membered a  scene  that  had  taken  place  about  four 
years  ago  when  Sydney  had  vehemently  demanded 
permission  to  take  up  painting  seriously  as  a  pro- 
fession. The  War  would  prevent  her  from  going 
abroad  for  this  purpose,  she  had  explained,  but  at 
least  she  could  attend  a  school  of  art  in  London. 
On  that  occasion  Lady  Flood  had  been  cold  and  pa- 
tient, but  perfectly  firm.  Sydney  was  seventeen; 
she  must  devote  her  time  to  other  things.  To  study 
painting  with  the  definite  purpose  of  making  it  her 
profession  was  not  to  be  considered  either  now  or  in 
the  future.  Lady  Flood  might  almost  have  pro- 
nounced the  words  of  Mrs.  Gowan  in  Little  Dorrit: 
"We  never  yet  in  our  family  have  gone  beyond  an 
Amateur."  There  was,  as  Duncan  had  suggested, 
a  distinct  survival  of  the  Victorian  era  in  many  of 
Lady  Flood's  opinions. 

Sydney,  young,  timid,  penniless,  had  had  no 
choice  but  to  yield.  Thenceforth  the  subject  was 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       37 

tacitly  tabooed,  and  it  was  only  after  her  return 
from  the  hospital  that  she  had  been  allowed  to  take 
possession  of  the  attic  and  convert  it  into  a  studio. 
It  was  a  concession  for  which  she  was  grateful,  but 
it  was  a  mere  stone  in  lieu  of  the  bread  for  which 
she  craved. 

Lady  Flood  had  that  type  of  mind — also  more 
frequent  in  the  Victorian  era  than  in  our  own  day — 
which  believes  that  a  subject  no  longer  discussed 
has  ceased  to  exist.  She  had  comforted  herself  at 
first  with  the  belief  that  the  usual  pleasures  of  youth 
would  destroy  these  artistic  cravings.  But  now  she 
was  constrained  to  realize  that  there  had  been  a 
definite  reason  for  Sydney's  impatient  dislike  of  so- 
ciety, and  parties. 

Now,  after  waiting  for  a  moment  in  which  to 
recover  her  breath,  Lady  Flood  said  dryly:  "All  the 
same,  my  dear,  I  strongly  advise  you  to  leave  your 
brushes  and  paints  behind  in  the  attic  the  day  you 
marry.  You'll  have  a  thousand  things  to  do  as  a 
married  woman,  and  I  can  assure  you  that  you'll 
have  far  less  time  to  call  your  own." 

"If  I  believed  that,  I  should  not  marry,"  said 
Sydney. 

She  was  still  very  quiet  and  composed,  but  her 
curious  determination  struck  Lady  Flood  as  being 
something  very  strong  and  vital,  a  force  that  had 
to  be  reckoned  with.  At  that  moment  she  felt  an 
extraordinary  compassion  for  Duncan. 

"Did  you  tell  him  all  this?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.     He  quite  agreed,"  said  Sydney. 

"The  man  must  be  a  fool,"  Lady  Flood  thought 
to  herself.  But  perhaps  he  had  made  the  excusable 
mistake  of  imagining  that  Sydney  would  prove  easy 
and  tractable  to  deal  with. 

"Do  you  think  it  will  be  fair  to  him?"  asked  Lady 
Flood. 


38 

"That's  just  what  I  told  him.  But  he  didn't  seem 
to  care." 

It  was  certainly  a  proof  of  the  sincerity  of  his 
devotion. 

"You  have  never  been  happy  here,"  said  Lady 
Flood,  in  a  tone  of  resigned  regret;  "I  have  done 
my  best,  but  you  never  seemed  to  care  for  what  I 
could  give  you.  You  were  always  hankering  after 
other  things — impossible  things  for  a  girl  in  your 
position.  If  you  had  been  obliged  to  work  for  your 
living,  that  would  have  been  another  affair." 

"Jack  has  a  profession,  and  he  has  more  money 
than  I  shall  ever  have." 

"There  is  no  need  for  you  to  work,"  said  Lady 
Flood;  "you  have  a  good  home.  Most  girls  would 
be  perfectly  satisfied." 

"But  I  want  to  work!  I  want  to  paint,"  said 
Sydney.  "It's  something  stronger  than  I  am.  A 
vocation — "  There  was  a  hint  of  excitement  now  in 
her  flushed  face  and  shining  eyes. 

"You  would  find  a  great  many  real  geniuses  in 
the  field,"  observed  her  mother,  "and  you  are  not 
a  genius,  my  dear  Sydney.  You  have  a  pretty  little 
talent,  and  I'm  sure  you  will  decorate  the  walls  of 
your  new  home  with  charming  water-colors." 

Sydney  was  silent.  She  tried  to  believe  that  her 
mother  put  altogether  too  low  a  valuation  upon  her 
powers.  But  if  she  were  really  to  study  seriously, 
to  devote  her  life  to  it,  she  felt  that  she  had  it  in 
her  to  produce  something  not  wholly  bad.  .  .  . 
Passion  of  creation — that  mysterious  driving  power 
that  urges  the  artist  like  a  strong  superior  force — 
was  at  times  very  strong  in  her.  She  knew  the  sud- 
den thrill  of  desire,  its  warm  accompanying  glow, 
the  restlessness  of  brain,  that  could  only  be  satis- 
fied by  work.  At  such  moments  the  glacial  atmos- 
phere of  the  attic  did  not  affect  her;  she  would  take 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       39 

brushes  and  palette  and  spill  wonderful  confusions 
of  color  upon  paper  and  canvas.  And  if  some- 
thing happened  to  prevent  her — if  she  were  suddenly 
called  downstairs  to  entertain  visitors  at  afternoon 
tea  or  play  endless  games  of  poker-patience  with  a 
bored  mother — she  knew  the  ache  of  frustration,  a 
pitiless  pain  that  gnawed  at  her  very  life.  .  .  . 

Duncan,  if  he  loved  her,  would  never  let  her  know 
that  pain.  He  surely  could  not  be  so  cruel  as  to 
open  the  door  of  one  cage,  only  to  thrust  her  behind 
the  bars  of  another.  She  had  a  curious  faith  in 
Duncan.  He  loved  her,  and  she  believed  that  he 
would  give  her  a  complete,  perfect  liberty. 

Something  in  her  mother's  attitude,  however,  sug- 
gested that  she  would  have,  as  Duncan's  wife,  less 
liberty  rather  than  more.  There  would  be  other 
things.  But,  surely,  not  "people"  eternally — people 
who  looked  surprised  and  even  offended  if  you  an- 
swered them  at  random.  "Was  that  elder  girl  of 
Lady  Flood's  quite  'all  there'?  Such  a  contrast  to 
her  charming  sister!" 

Oh,  she  had  fought  it  out  with  herself  a  hundred 
times ! — had  tried  to  do  better,  to  cultivate  a  pretty 
manner,  an  easy  flow  of  conversation,  or  at  least 
an  attitude  of  concentrated  attention.  But  it  had 
been  of  no  avail.  The  visions  came,  and  everything 
real  and  tangible  became  suddenly  futile  and  use- 
less. .  .  . 

Sydney  kissed  her  mother  good-night  and  went  up 
to  her  room.  Hitherto  she  had  shared  it  with 
Moira,  because  the  accommodation  of  the  little 
house  did  not  admit  of  their  having  separate  apart- 
ments. But  there  was  an  old  divan  in  the  studio, 
and  sometimes  Sydney  had  crept  up  there  to  spend 
the  night,  when  she  had  found  herself  unusually 
wakeful  and  restless. 

To-night    the    room    looked    oddly    unoccupied. 


40       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

Moira's  bed  had  been  taken  away,  and  Sydney's  now 
occupied  the  center  of  the  wall.  A  picture  had  been 
moved  in  accordance  with  this  change.  A  fire  was 
burning  in  the  grate,  for  the  March  night  had  turned 
cold.  It  was  a  pleasant  room  with  dainty  chintzes 
and  curtains,  and  some  good  rugs  on  the  polished 
floor.  All  Moira's  manifold  possessions  had  van- 
ished. She  was  not  Moira  Flood  any  more.  She 
was  that  far  more  important  person,  Lady  Wanley. 


CHAPTER  IV 

DUNCAN  TURNER  presented  himself  punctually 
at  five  o'clock  on  the  following  day.  He  was 
neither  unduly  hopeful  nor  morbidly  despondent;  he 
felt,  perhaps,  that  his  chances  were  in  the  main 
good,  and  that  he  need  not  expect  opposition  of  any 
sort  from  Lady  Flood.  He  had  known  them  all 
long  enough  to  form  a  fairly  accurate  appreciation 
of  them.  Shrewd,  observant,  and  critical,  and  pos- 
sessing a  kindly  if  rather  cynical  tolerance  of  his 
fellow-creatures,  Duncan  had  long  ago  decided  that 
Lady  Flood  neither  understood  nor  appreciated  her 
elder  daughter.  She  adored  Moira  and  worshiped 
her  delightful  son,  Jack,  but  Sydney  always  seemed  to 
fit  imperfectly  into  her  home-frame.  Sometimes 
Duncan  had  gone  so  far  as  to  pity  her.  Sometimes 
he  had  felt  a  queer  impatience,  verging  on  irrita- 
bility, towards  her.  But  always  he  had  cared  for 
her  greatly  and  seen  in  her  the  woman  he  wished  to 
marry.  As  he  rang  the  bell,  he  wondered  if  Lady 
Flood  would  feel  grateful  to  him  for  taking  the  girl 
off  her  hands.  If  so,  he  devoutly  hoped  that  she 
would  not  show  it. 

He  was  received  by  both  mother  and  daughter. 
Lady  Flood's  greeting  was  such  as  she  always  be- 
stowed upon  him,  cordial  and  pleasant.     Sydney's 
was  cold  and  timid,  but  without  embarrassment.    He 
wondered  if  the  subject  had  been  discussed  between 
them,  and  what  had  been  said.     They  were  having 
tea  when  the  door  opened  and  Wright  announced: 
"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Moreton  Cochrane!" 
Sydney  rose  quickly,  and  Duncan,  glancing  at  her, 

41 


42       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

saw  that  her  face  was  less  colorless,  and  that  she 
looked  both  eager  and  confused.  Who  were  these 
people  who  had  power  to  arouse  emotion  within  her  ? 
He  gave  them  a  quick,  piercing  glance.  The  name 
had  conveyed  nothing  to  him. 

Moreton  Cochrane  was  a  tall,  ill-made  man  with 
a  straggling  black  beard,  deep-set  eyes,  and  bushy 
eyebrows.  He  was  perhaps  nearer  sixty  than  fifty. 
His  wife,  still  in  her  early  thirties,  was  a  woman 
of  renowned  beauty.  Most  of  the  eminent  artists 
of  Europe  had  endeavored  to  represent  that  elusive 
beauty  upon  canvas.  She  was  pale  and  dark  with 
a  creamy  skin,  delicate  features,  a  perfectly  drawn 
mouth,  and  magnificent  eyes.  You  looked  at  her — 
and  you  looked  again.  You  wanted  to  remain,  so 
Sydney  felt,  just  looking  at  her.  She  made  you 
think  of  flowers,  of  the  fresh  and  wild  fragrance 
of  spring  woods  ...  of  something,  too,  that 
could  be  loving,  and  a  little  fierce  and  cruel  in  its 
love. 

Mrs.  Cochrane  saw  Sydney's  eyes  fixed  upon  her. 
She  was  less  vain  than  might  have  been  expected 
of  a  woman  so  universally  admired,  but  she  knew 
the  significance  of  that  look.  She  had  seen  it  often 
in  the  eyes  of  artists,  both  women  and  men,  who  had 
wished  to  paint  her.  There  was  admiration  in  it, 
and  astonishment,  and  a  little  fear.  Some  things 
can  be  almost  too  perfect.  That  was  the  effect  Mrs. 
Cochrane's  beauty  had  on  certain  people.  They 
turned  aside  almost  with  relief  to  something  more 
human,  more  commonplace.  They  had  the  feeling, 
perhaps,  that  no  one  woman  had  the  right  to  ab- 
sorb so  much  unmarred  loveliness. 

When  she  met  Sydney's  gaze,  she  smiled  at  her 
in  a  frank,  affectionate  way,  as  if  there  already  ex- 
isted a  friendship  between  them. 

There  was  a  little  talk  of  Wanley  and  Moira, 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       43 

regrets  being  expressed  by  the  Cochranes  that  they 
had  not  returned  to  London  in  time  for  yesterday's 
ceremony.  It  was  Wanley  who  had  begged  them 
to  come  and  call.  ...  At  this  point  Moreton  turned 
abruptly  to  Sydney. 

"Are  you  the  one  that  paints?"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  said  Sydney. 

"My  daughter  paints  in  water-colors  quite  pret- 
tily," interposed  Lady  Flood. 

Moreton  took  no  notice  of  this  speech.  He 
glanced  again  at  Sydney,  at  her  slight  figure,  her 
childish  bobbed  hair,  her  innocent,  expressive  eyes. 
She  was  younger  than  he  had  supposed  from  what 
Wanley  had  said. 

"Keen  about  it?"  he  asked. 

"Very  keen,"  said  Sydney.  Her  eyes  kindled; 
it  was  as  if  something — some  bright  hope  perhaps 
— had  stirred  within  her,  informing  her  cold  sweet 
pallor  with  a  sudden  vitality. 

"My  fiancee's  elder  sister  daubs  a  bit,"  Wanley 
had  told  him  only  a  few  weeks  before.  "When 
you're  next  in  London  I  wish  you'd  go  and  have 
a  look  at  her  stuff  and  give  your  irrank  opinion  about 
it.  Of  course,  if  you  can  honestly  tell  her  she's  got 
no  talent,  you'll  earn  her  mother's  everlasting  grati- 
tude." 

And  Moreton  had  smiled,  his  crooked  bitter  smile. 
"Mere  daubs,  1  suppose?"  he  had  inquired. 

"Well,  yes,  I  think  so.  But  I  rather  think  they're 
individual  ones.  Different  from  most  people's.  I'd 
like  to  know  if  there's  any  talent  in  that  differ- 
ence." 

Lady  Flood  felt  slightly  offended.  She  had  in- 
tended by  her  little  speech  to  relegate  her  daughter's 
talent  to  its  proper  place  in  the  cosmos,  and  her 
verdict  had1  not  been  accepted  as  final.  These  peo- 
ple— important  in  their  way,  and  friends  of  Wan- 


44       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

ley's — had  come  here  apparently  for  the  definite  pur- 
pose of  appraising  that  talent. 

She  reflected  gloomily  that  they  could  not  have 
come  at  a  more  inopportune  moment.  She  ought 
to  have  told  Wright  that  she  was  only  at  home 
to  Mr.  Turner  that  afternoon. 

"I  want  to  see  your  work,  if  I  may,"  Moreton 
said.  He  was  a  hard  and  just  critic,  but  he  nearly 
always  had  a  kind  word  to  say  to  a  simple,  earnest, 
sincere  worker.  One  couldn't  always  be  discover- 
ing genius,  but  there  was  plenty  of  young  talent  to 
encourage.  And  he  liked  Sydney's  looks,  especially 
her  eyes,  so  grave,  so  full  of  vision.  The  austerity, 
the  simplicity,  the  innocence  of  them.  But  what  had 
made  her  cut  her  hair  in  that  ridiculous  fashion? 
Unless  she  wanted  to  look  fifteen !  .  .  . 

Duncan  sat  there  astonished  at  the  acute  sense  of 
discomfort  that  had  come  over  him  since  the  ap- 
pearance of  these  two  strangers.  Remembering  his 
conversation  with  Sydney  on  the  preceding  evening, 
his  anxiety  increased  rather  than  diminished.  Much 
that  she  had  said  then,  had  been  puzzling  and  am- 
biguous, but  now  a  certain  light  was  being  thrown 
upon  her  words,  illuminating  something  of  their  ob- 
scurity. And  it  made  him  feel  uneasy  and  restless, 
as  if  malicious,  invisible  forces  were  bent  on  wreck- 
ing his  happiness  before  he  had  had  time  to  grasp 
it  and  make  it  his  own.  Who  was  this  man  to  call 
up  so  swiftly  that  bright,  animated  look  into  Syd- 
ney's face?  This  new  stirring  of  jealousy  in  Dun- 
can's heart  did  most  powerfully  stimulate  at  that 
moment  his  love  for  the  girl.  He  felt  that  it  would 
kill  him  to  lose  her.  He  would  make  the  most 
outrageous  promises  if  only  he  might  win  her.  .  .  . 

She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  him,  so  eagerly  was 
she  hanging  upon  Moreton  Cochrane's  utterances. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       45 

"I  shall  be  delighted  to  show  it  to  you,"  she  said, 
in  reply  to  Moreton. 

Duncan  noticed  that  she  made  no  criticism  of  her 
own  work,  never  said  as  most  people  would  have 
done,  that  it  wasn't  worth  looking  at.  She  left  all 
judgment  to  Moreton.  Who  was  this  man  to  come 
thus  and  act  perhaps  as  the  arbiter  of  her  fate  ? 

"You  must  bring  some  of  your  sketches  down 
and  show  them  to  Mr.  Cochrane,  my  dear,"  Lady 
Flood  said  graciously. 

Sydney,  with  a  new  and  fearful  courage,  said: 

"I  think  I  can  show  them  to  better  advantage  in 
the  studio,  if  Mr.  Cochrane  doesn't  mind  climbing 
all  those  stairs." 

"When  you've  lived  in  Italy  as  long  as  I  have, 
you  never  think  about  stairs,"  said  Moreton,  "and 
you're  quite  right,  Miss  Flood — an  artist's  work- 
shop is  the  right  place  to  see  his  work  in."  His 
face  was  interested.  He  turned  to  his  wife. 

"Roma,  you  must  come  too.  My  wife's  opinion 
is  better  worth  having  than  mine.  It's  more  fitted 
to  deal  with  modern  work." 

He  smiled  at  his  wife  with  an  odd,  sudden  gayety 
that  flashed  simultaneously  from  eyes  and  mouth 
and  crumpled  up  his  whole  face  into  a  complicated 
system  of  wrinkles. 

Duncan  was  assailed  by  a  deeper  and  more  acute 
misgiving.  Never  yet  had  he  been  invited  to  climb 
up  to  that  fastness  where  Sydney  worked.  Beyond 
one  or  two  sketches  that  had  been  framed  and  hung 
up  in  the  drawing-room,  he  had  seen  nothing  of 
hers.  And  a  little  fear  of  Moreton  came  over  him. 
He  could  so  easily  persuade  Sydney  that  she  had 
real  talent;  he  could  fan  the  smoldering  flame  that 
Lady  Flood  had  been  at  such  pains  to  quench  and 
suppress.  .  .  . 


46       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

There  was  a  moment  of  tension,  broken  happily 
by  Lady  Flood,  who  invited  him  to  have  a  second 
cup  of  tea.  Duncan  extended  his  cup.  He  felt 
that  the  evil  spell  had  been  broken.  Mrs.  Coch- 
rane  addressed  a  few  words  to  him.  She  asked 
him  if  he  knew  Italy  well,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
confess  that  he  had  only  visited  it  once  many  years 
ago  as  a  tourist.  She  told  him  that  they  lived 
chiefly  in  Venice.  Of  course,  they  had  not  been 
there  during  the  War.  But  they  had  returned  since 
the  Armistice  and  had  happily  found  their  old  pal- 
ace quite  intact. 

Duncan  drank  his  second  cup  of  tea  and  found 
it  less  perfect  than  the  first.  He  wanted  to  talk 
to  Sydney  alone.  He  had  come  for  that  purpose. 
She  had  said  that  she  would  give  him  her  answer 
to-day.  But,  of  course,  it  was  impossible  to  talk 
to  her  with  this  man  absorbing  all  her  attention. 
She  would  take  them  up  to  the  studio,  and  he  had 
no  fancy  to  make  an  unwanted  addition  to  the  little 
group,  all  eagerly  discussing  her  talent. 

Now,  they  had  all  three  risen  and  were  going  to- 
wards the  door,  Moreton  persistent  in  his  intention 
to  see  Sydney's  work.  Duncan  found  himself  left 
alone  with  Lady  Flood.  He  tried  to  shake  off  his 
depression,  ashamed  that  she  should  think  him  dis- 
comfited by  the  happenings  of  the  afternoon.  He 
was  not  in  the  best  of  moods  for  discussing  his  own 
affairs  just  then,  but  he  saw  that  he  could  not  avoid 
doing  so.  Lady  Flood  turned  her  eyes  upon  him 
as  her  daughter  closed  the  door,  and  sat  there  in 
an  expectant  interrogative  attitude. 

"I  suppose  Sydney  has  told  you?"  he  observed. 

"Yes — last  night.  But  she  has  not  said  any- 
thing about  her  final  decision  to  me.  It  was  a  sur- 
prise to  me  that  she  should  be  thinking  of — mar- 
riage." 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       47 

"You  believed  her  to  be  too  much  absorbed  in 
her  art?" 

"I  hardly  dignify  it  by  that  name,"  said  Lady 
Flood. 

"You  don't  believe  in  her  talent?"  said  Duncan. 

"I'm  quite  sure  she  isn't  a  genius,  if  you  mean 
that."  Lady  Flood  laughed  good-humoredly.  "Of 
course,  you  were  wise  to  promise  her  liberty  and 
leisure  in  which  to  paint.  In  my  day  married 
women  weren't  supposed  to  have  vocations." 

Duncan  felt  both  relieved  and  annoyed. 

"This  man  Cochrane  may  persuade  her  that  she 
is  a  genius,"  he  said  slowly,  voicing  his  fears. 

"That  is  very  unlikely.  My  son-in-law  asked 
him  to  look  at  Sydney's  work  and  give  us  his  candid 
opinion  of  it.  Wanley  says  his  flair  for  genius  is 
extraordinary.  I  believe  he  is  absolutely  truthful 
and  sincere,  even  to  the  point  of  brutality.  I  was 
most  anxious  he  should  come,  although  it's  a  little 
awkward,  their  having  chosen  to-day.  But  Wanley 
knew  I  was  distressed  about  Sydney,  and  he  thought 
that  a  word  of  discouragement  from  a  perfectly  un- 
biased source  might  prove  beneficial."  She  spoke 
as  if  the  whole  household  had  suffered  severely 
under  Sydney's  ardent  pursuit  of  her  art. 

"You  have  not  thought  of  one  thing,"  said  Dun- 
can, in  his  dry  ironical  voice.  "The  man  may  not 
discourage  her.  If  he  is  absolutely  truthful  he  will 
let  her  know  exactly  where  she  stands."  Then 
he  added  more  lightly,  "I'm  not  yet  perfectly  con- 
vinced myself  that  Sydney  is  quite  without  genius." 

Yes,  there  was  that  restlessness  of  hers,  imper- 
fectly controlled;  a  striving,  an  effort,  the  touch 
of  unworldliness,  that  supreme  preoccupation  with 
something  that  belonged  elsewhere  .  .  .  she  had  all 
those  characteristics.  She  was  close,  concentrated, 
persistent,  in  her  industry.  The  consecration  of 


48       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

talent,  like  the  consecration  of  the  soul,  gives  to 
its  devotee  something  of  a  cloistered  detachment. 

Duncan's  heart  sank.  He  felt  that  those  long 
nervous  hands  of  Moreton  Cochrane's  held  his  own 
destiny  as  well  as  Sydney's  in  their  grasp. 

And  Mrs.  Cochrane?  It  is  possible  that  of  the 
two,  Duncan  feared  her  the  more.  In  her,  he  had 
quickly  detected  a  powerful  nervous  force,  deli- 
cately, fastidiously  rapacious.  She  had  that  amaz- 
ing, almost  outrageous,  beauty  which  is  never  ac- 
companied by  a  purely  negative  character. 

And  upstairs  in  the  studio,  to  whose  sacred  pre- 
cincts he,  Duncan  Turner,  had  never  been  admit- 
ted, Sydney  was  alone  with  these  two  people.  With 
no  one  to  help  or  protect  her.  He  saw  them  not 
as  friends,  but  as  enemies. 

His  last  speech  had  brought  a  smile  that  was  al- 
most sarcastic  to  Lady  Flood's  face. 

"I  have  no  fear — no  fear  at  all  what  the  ver- 
dict will  be !  I  am  not  a  bad  judge — what  mother 
ever  is? — of  my  own  child's  capabilities  and  limita- 
tions. Very  hard-working  and  painstaking  I  know, 
but  really  not  a  scrap  of  talent  or  originality.  Such 
little  skill  as  she  possesses  is  laughably  derivative." 

Duncan  felt  no  annoyance  with  her.  He  per- 
ceived that  she  was  concealing  a  very  fierce  anxiety 
beneath  this  shower  of  words.  She  was  as  much 
in  suspense  about  Moreton  Cochrane's  verdict  as 
he  was  himself. 

"She  is  so  young,"  he  said. 

"Genius  always  shows  itself  in  the  child." 

He  began  to  understand,  through  all  his  torment, 
how  Sydney  had  for  twenty-one  years  been  trodden 
upon,  suppressed,  and  suffocated,  but  with  an  out- 
ward solicitude  and  kindness  that  masked  the  cru- 
elty which  lay  beneath.  If  he  could  only  take  her 
away — give  her  room  to  expand !  It  was  this  very 


thing  that  had  made  her  seriously  consider  his  pro- 
posal. A  straining  after  liberty,  a  mad  desire  to 
spread  her  clipped,  prisoned  wings.  .  .  . 

"I  feel  that  marriage — a  happy  marriage — might 
transform  Sydney  into  a  very  different  being,"  said 
Lady  Flood. 

"I  wouldn't  change  her  for  the  world!"  said 
Duncan,  with  unusual  warmth.  "If  she  does  de- 
velop, let  her  do  so  on  her  own  lines."  He  rose, 
his  eyes  fixed  regretfully  upon  the  clock.  He  had 
had  no  private  talk  with  Sydney  that  day,  and  he 
had  work  at  home  waiting  to  be  done.  Besides, 
he  hadn't  the  courage  to  outstay  these  people,  to 
listen  to  the  verdict  which  might  shatter  all  his 
hopes. 

"You're  not  going?"  said  Lady  Flood. 

"Yes,  I'm  afraid  I  must.  I'll  look  in  to-morrow 
if  you'll  let  me.  Or  Sydney  can  telephone  to  tell 
me  what  time  she's  free — -she  knows  my  number." 

"I  don't  like  your  going  without  a  word  with 
her." 

"I'm  sure  she's  not  in  the  mood  to  give  me  a  defi- 
nite answer  to-day.  And  I'd  rather  not  hurry  her." 

Lady  Flood  was  thinking:  "That  isn't  the  way 
to  treat  Sydney — she  needs  a  firm  hand."  Still,  she 
could  not  help  admiring  him  for  his  sturdy  attitude 
in  the  face  of  this  momentary  check.  He  had  his 
work  to  do,  and  he  was  not  going  to  neglect  it. 

"I'm  sure  she'll  want  to  see  you  to-morrow.  She'll 
be  disappointed  to  find  you  couldn't  wait."  She 
uttered  the  conventional  sentences  without  convic- 
tion. 

Duncan  smiled.  Yes,  he  had  hoped  many  things 
from  his  visit  to-day,  and  he  had  drawn  a  blank. 
He  had  longed  to  speak  to  Sydney  alone,  to  utter  just 
a  careful  word  or  two  of  love,  to  touch  her  hand 
perhaps.  .  .  .  She  was  a  little  snow-flower,  frozen, 


50 

unawakened.  And  his  love  was  there,  waiting  to 
warm  her  heart.  .  .  . 

"I  don't  think  he's  very  much  in  love,"  thought 
Lady  Flood  to  herself  as  he  went  away.  "He  took 
this  invasion  of  the  Cochranes  so  coolly.  But  I 
daresay  he  thinks  Sydney  would  make  him  a  suitable 
wife,  and  no  doubt  he  likes  the  idea  of  the  Wan- 
ley  connection." 

It  did  not  occur  to  her  that  Duncan  Turner  was 
not  at  all  the  kind  of  man  to  wear  his  heart  upon 
his  sleeve. 


CHAPTER  V 

MRS.  COCHRANE  was  sitting  in  a  brooding,  con- 
templative attitude  on  the  low  divan  in  Syd- 
ney's studio.  Her  long  dark  eyes  were  dreamily 
indolent  and  gave  little  sign  of  the  alert  attention 
she  was  bestowing  upon  the  girl  who  stood  there 
exhibiting  her  work  to  Moreton  in  a  simple,  unself- 
conscious  manner,  rather  as  if  she  had  been  dis- 
playing the  drawings  of  some  artist  unknown  to  her. 

The  slight  figure  in  its  straight,  loosely-made  dress 
of  pale  gray,  was  childish  and  unformed.  The 
bobbed  hair  looked  paler  than  ever  in  the  strong, 
bleak  north  light  of  the  little  room.  The  two 
women  offered  a  contrast  to  each  other  that  could 
hardly  have  been  more  sharply  defined.  Mrs.  Coch- 
rane  was  aware  of  it,  but  she  knew,  too,  that  she 
was  not  the  loser.  There  was  a  mirror  at  no  great 
distance  from  her,  and  she  glanced  at  her  reflec- 
tion in  it  every  now  and  then.  Her  splendid,  opu- 
lent furs  were  opened  at  the  throat  to  show  a 
glimpse  of  pearls  lying  against  a  dazzling  skin.  She 
was  a  finished,  sophisticated  specimen,  and  Sydney 
was  at  the  beginning  of  things,  unawakened,  un- 
aware. .  .  . 

Mrs.  Cochrane  had  taken  a  fancy  to  her,  and  she 
hoped  that  Moreton  would  find  something  pleasant 
to  say  of  those  drawings.  And  if  his  verdict  were 
a  disagreeable  one,  she  hoped  also  that  he  would  not 
be  too  brutal.  There  was  something  in  Sydney's 
aspect  that  irresistibly  suggested  the  shorn  lamb. 

Moreton,  released  from  the  slightly  conventional 
atmosphere  of  Lady  Flood's  drawing-room,  was  in 

Si 


52       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

his  element,  chatty,  critical,  yet  withal  kindly.  He 
could  tear  a  thing  to  ribbons  under  the  artist's  very 
eyes,  but  he  never  proceeded  to  such  harsh  measures 
nor  induced  despair  where  he  discerned  the  faint- 
est sign  of  talent  or  serious  endeavor.  One  or  two 
of  his  "hard  sayings"  made  Sydney  wince.  But  she 
bore  the  ordeal  well.  She  was  not  a  coward,  and 
the  presence  of  that  silent,  exquisite  woman  sus- 
tained her.  She  was  determined  not  to  show  "feel- 
ings" under  that  watchful,  indolent  scrutiny. 

Moreton  went  steadily  through  the  drawings 
proffered  for  his  inspection.  He  stood  in  front  of 
the  easel,  and  Sydney  was  beside  him,  shifting  her 
work  when,  by  a  mute  nod  of  the  head,  he  signified 
that  he  had  finished  inspecting  the  painting  just  ex- 
posed. He  looked  rather  like  a  hawk  regarding 
its  prey  with  a  close,  cruel  examination  before  pro- 
ceeding to  devour  it.  He  turned  at  last  abruptly 
to  his  wife. 

"My  darling  Roma,  what  do  you  think  of  it?" 

His  voice  was  changed;  it  had  softened  percepti- 
bly. It  made  Sydney  look  up  sharply.  She  was 
quick  to  catch  the  inflections  of  voices.  She  knew 
at  that  moment  that  Moreton  worshiped  his  beau- 
tiful wife.  But  of  course !  She  was  exquisite — she 
was  disturbingly  attractive.  When  she  was  in  the 
room,  you  couldn't  forget  her  presence  for  a  single 
moment,  no  matter  how  deeply  you  might  be  oc- 
cupied with  other  things.  In  that  chill,  undecorated, 
London  attic  she  was  like  some  rare  steadily-shining 
jewel.  .  .  . 

She  rose  languidly  and  came  over  to  the  easel, 
glancing  perfunctorily  at  one  or  two  of  the  draw- 
ings. 

When  she  spoke,  it  was  in  a  high  sweet  voice 
that  was  one  of  her  charms. 

"I  think  Miss  Flood  wants  a  change  of  environ- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       53 

ment,"  she  said.  "London  has  made  her  work 
bleak.  Where  she  does  use  color  she  uses  it  with 
extraordinary  purity  and  brilliance,  and  yet  you  feel 
she's  a  little  afraid  of  it." 

Sydney  listened  to  the  words  with  an  eagerness 
that  was  expressed  not  only  in  her  flushed  face,  but 
in  her  whole  attitude.  They  thrilled  and  warmed 
her.  She  had  an  absurd  impulse  to  kneel  at  Mrs. 
Cochrane's  feet,  and  thank  her  for  those  words  of 
finely-tempered  praise.  She  knew  then,  beyond  the 
possibility  of  doubt,  that  whatever  Moreton  Coch- 
rane's ultimate  verdict  might  be,  his  wife  did  not 
question  the  existence  of  talent,  or  of  promise,  in 
her  work. 

Unconsciously  she  moved  a  step  nearer  to  her, 
and  Mrs.  Cochrane  turned  her  head  a  little  and 
smiled  at  her. 

"You  will  be  tired  standing  so  long,  Miss  Flood. 
And  don't  let  Moreton  be  too  voracious — he's  seen 
quite  as  much  as  is  good  for  him." 

She  held  out  a  delicate-looking  hand  to  Sydney, 
and  drew  her  towards  the  divan.  They  sat  there 
side  by  side.  Sydney  was  in  a  state  of  subdued  but 
ecstatic  excitement.  She  had  forgotten  the  very  ex- 
istence of  Duncan  Turner;  her  mind  had  strayed 
very  far  from  the  purport  of  his  visit.  It  was 
Mrs.  Cochrane  who  reminded  her  of  him  by 
saying: 

"Who  was  that  dull  young  man  at  tea?" 

"A  Mr.  Duncan  Turner,"  said  Sydney.  She 
flushed  a  little;  she  was  certain  that  Mrs.  Cochrane 
had  divined  the  reason  of  his  being  there.  Her  next 
words  confirmed  these  fears. 

"Are  you  engaged  to  him?" 

Sydney  stammered,  hesitated.  The  question  in 
its  frank  outspokenness  took  her  a  little  aback,  de- 
priving her  of  speech. 


54       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

"Oh,  I  see,  it  isn't  settled,"  said  Mrs.  Cochrane, 
laughing.  "Moreton,  you  mustn't  listen.  My  hus- 
band is  terribly  old-fashioned,  Miss  Flood — he  re- 
gards matrimony  as  the  grave  of  genius."  She  held 
Sydney  with  her  eyes. 

Duncan  Turner's  star  was  assuredly  not  in  the 
ascendant  at  that  moment. 

Moreton  had  nevertheless  been  listening  atten- 
tively. He  turned  sharply  to  Sydney. 

"But  I  understood  from  Wanley  that  you  wanted 
to  take  up  painting  as  a  career?"  he  said. 

"So  1  do,"  said  Sydney.  "If  I  could  only  do 
that  I  shouldn't  dream  of  getting  married." 

"Poor  Mr.  Turner!"  said  Mrs.  Cochrane,  laugh- 
ing. 

Sydney  lowered  her  eyes. 

Moreton  broke  the  little  silence  that  followed. 

"And  let  me  tell  you,  it'll  be  a  thousand  pities  for 
you  to  think  about  marriage  until  you've  given  your 
talent — a  very  considerable  talent  it  is,  too,  in  my 
opinion — -a  fair  trial.  You've  got  a  great  gift,  Miss 
Flood,  and  I  didn't  come  here  expecting  to  say  any- 
thing of  the  sort.  You  ought  to  study  and  work. 
Not  alone,  but  under  first-class  men.  You  ought 
to  see  what  other  people  are  doing,  and  not  only 
other  people  but  other  nations."  He  spoke  authori- 
tatively, as  if  he  were  addressing  a  child,  but  the 
words  fell  on  Sydney's  ears  like  music.  Only — it 
would  all  be  of  no  avail.  Her  mother  would  never 
let  her  go,  would  never  give  her  any  freedom.  The 
only  way  to  achieve  a  measure  of  liberty  was  by 
marrying  Duncan — Duncan,  for  whom  her  only 
feeling  was  a  vague  friendliness  that  yet  counted  his 
departure  a  more  welcome  thing  than  his  arrival. 
She  sighed. 

Moreton  tossed  the  sketches  aside  and  seemed  to 
be  seeking  for  a  particular  one.  He  found  it,  drew 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       55 

it  forth  from  the  little  heap  upon  the  table,  and  put 
it  back  upon  the  easel. 

^  "Winter  Day  in  Chelsea,"  he  said.  "Well,  Miss 
Flood,  I  can  say  truthfully  that  it's  a  little  gem. 
Bleak?  Of  course  it's  bleak,  Roma,  but  winter  days 
in  Chelsea  are  apt  to  be  bleak.  You've  got  that 
colorful  colorlessness  of  the  river  and  sky  wonder- 
fully. What  you  want  is,  as  my  wife  says,  a  change 
of  environment.  You  ought  to  go  to  Italy  and 
learn  what  color  can  be  like,  the  bright  sharp  lights, 
the  defined  shadows.  You've  got  heaps  to  learn, 
but  the  talent's  there  and  the  vision,  and  in  this," 
he  flicked  at  the  drawing  with  his  thumb  and  fin- 
ger, "you  show  a  perfect  mastery  of  line.  I  rec- 
ommend you  to  forget  this  Mr.  What's-his-name — 
Turner — for  the  next  few  years,  and  devote  yourself 
to  studying  seriously." 

Sydney  had  risen  from  the  divan.  Her  hands 
were  clasped,  her  eyes  shining.  She  looked  trans- 
formed. 

"Oh,  if  I  only  could!'9 

"Why  can't  you?"  There  was  a  hint  of  impa- 
tience in  his  tone.  "What  is  there  to  prevent  you?" 

"Mamma  .  .  .  everything  .  .  ."  said  Sydney. 

"She'd  let  you  travel  back  with  us,  surely?  We 
shall  be  going  to  Venice  in  a  few  weeks.  We  can 
keep  an  eye  on  you — put  you  up  to  the  ropes.  .  .  ." 

"Venice !"  repeated  Sydney. 

"Moreton,  you  are  asking  impossibilities  of  Miss 
Flood.  Women  don't  leave  the  men  they  care  for 
like  that."  The  high,  sweet,  incisive  voice  held  an 
undercurrent  of  irony.  "We  seem  to  have  come  a 
few  days  too  late." 

"But  I  don't  care  for  him,"  said  Sydney  emphati- 
cally. "He  knows  that  I  don't.  But  I've  no  free- 
dom here — I  can  hardly  snatch  an  hour  a  day_  to 
paint  undisturbed.  Mamma  dislikes  my  painting 


56       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

.  .  .  and  Duncan  promised  that  if  I  married  him  I 
should  have  liberty  to  paint  as  much  and  as  often 
as  1  wished  to." 

"Your  Duncan  must  be  a  singularly  accommodat- 
ing young  man,"  observed  Roma  Cochrane.  "But 
to  my  more  sophisticated  ears  it  sounds  suspiciously 
like  one  of  those  promises  that  a  husband  never 
dreams  of  keeping." 

Moreton  glanced  at  her  sharply. 

"Yes,  Moreton,  I  mean  it,  but  you  oughtn't  to  be 
in  the  room  when  I'm  giving  Miss  Flood  good  ad- 
vice." She  smiled  at  him,  and  he  immediately 
looked  mollified. 

"We're  not  here  to  play  Providence,"  he  said 
rather  curtly,  "and  if  you  want  to  marry  you'd  bet- 
ter forget  all  I've  said  to-day.  You  will  be  choos- 
ing the  safer,  the  more  sheltered  lot,  and  you  don't 
look  as  if  you'd  be  much  of  a  fighter.  But  if  you 
want  to  paint,  don't  run  after  other  gods.  You 
must  weigh  the  whole  thing  carefully,  and  then 
choose." 

Sydney  shook  her  head. 

"Mamma  would  never  let  me  go  away  to  Italy 
like  that.  If  I  don't  marry  I  must  stay  here — and 
play  poker-patience." 

"Poker-patience?"  He  gave  a  groan.  "And 
with  your  talent,  your  great  little  gift,  your  energy, 
your  ambition !"  There  was  scorn  in  his  look  as 
if  he  would  have  said:  "Weakly,  foolish  thing!" 

"I  have  no  money  of  my  own,"  said  Sydney.  "It 
costs  a  lot  to  travel  now.  And  you'll  never  convince 
Mamma  that  I'm  any  good." 

Mrs.  Cochrane  rose  and  put  her  hand  lightly  on 
the  girl's  shoulder.  She  was  much  taller  than  Syd- 
ney, and  she  had  to  bend  a  little  towards  her.  "You 
can't  go  against  Moreton,  you  know,"  she  said,  and 
her  eyes  looked  straight  into  Sydney's. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       57 

Sydney  trembled  a  little  under  the  touch,  the  look. 
There  was  something  both  of  persuasion  and  en- 
couragement in  that  slight  caress.  She  had  not 
known  this  woman  for  more  than  an  hour,  yet  she 
felt  already  that  she  was  a  dear  and  intimate  friend, 
and  that  she  loved  her.  Mrs.  Cochrane  was  accus- 
tomed to  conquest,  knew  its  signs,  enjoyed  its  ac- 
complishment. Besides,  she  liked  Sydney,  and  she 
had  seldom  heard  Moreton  so  enthusiastic  about 
any  one  before.  Especially  a  little,  unknown  begin- 
ner— a  girl  who  looked  scarcely  more  than  a  child. 
He  had  evidently  discerned  something  in  her  work 
that  recommended  itself  forcibly  to  him.  Something 
that  had  escaped  her  own  eyes.  .  .  . 

But  as  she  stood  there  with  that  hand  still  lying 
in  light  caress  on  her  shoulder,  Sydney  knew  that 
Duncan  had  suddenly  ceased  to  matter.  He  was  a 
negligible  figure,  lurking  somewhere  in  the  back- 
ground. She  wondered  if  her  mother  could  possibly 
be  induced  to  accept  the  task  of  dismissing  him.  It 
was  wholly  distasteful  to  her,  and  she  guiltily  felt 
that  last  night  she  had  given  him  every  reason  to 
hope  that  her  reply  would  be  in  the  affirmative. 

"I'll  give  you  fifty  pounds  for  the  Winter  Day," 
said  Moreton  with  sudden  decision.  "That'll  pay 
your  journey  to  Venice,  and  give  you  something  in 
hand  to  start  with.  Living's  cheaper  there  when 
all's  said  and  done.  You'll  miss  your  home  com- 
forts, but  Italy's  got  other  things  to  offer  you.  We 
shall  spend  most  of  this  summer  in  a  little  villa 
we've  bought  on  the  Lido,  and  you  could  run  over 
there  and  see  us." 

"I  couldn't  accept  it,"  said  Sydney,  "the  picture 
isn't  worth  it.  It  isn't  a  picture — it's  a  sketch.  I 
did  it  in  a  morning."  She  held  her  head  proudly. 
She  felt  that  he  was  offering  her  a  fancy  price  as  if 
she  were  an  object  of  charity. 


58       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

He  burst  out  laughing.  Moreton's  laugh  was  a 
little  shrill  for  a  man;  this  gave  it  a  disagreeable 
quality. 

"Not  worth  it?"  he  said.  "If  you  knew  me  bet- 
ter, you'd  know  that  I've  never  yet  bought  a  picture 
above  its  value.  If  I  take  it  to  a  dealer  for  you, 
you  may  get  much  more.  But  I  advise  you  to  accept, 
and  do  what  I  tell  you  with  the  money." 

Mrs.  Cochrane  interposed:  "This  little  girl's  far 
too  inexperienced  to  start  off  alone,"  she  said.  "I'm 
going  to  try  to  persuade  her  to  occupy  those  two 
top  rooms  of  our  palazzo.  They're  enormous  and 
rather  bare,  Miss  Flood,  but  they  look  out  on  the 
Grand  Canal,  and  you'll  like  that." 

"dive's  rooms?"  said  Moreton,  and  there  was  a 
hint  of  annoyance  in  his  tone  that  did  not  escape 
Sydney. 

"Clive  isn't  coming  out  this  spring,  he's  going  to 
Algiers,"  answered  Roma. 

There  was  a  little  pause,  then  Moreton  said: 

"But  he's  always  changing  his  mind — -he  may 
want  to  come." 

"Well,  he  won't  be  able  to,  then,  that's  all,"  said 
Mrs.  Cochrane,  with  a  smile. 

"But  my  dear — he'd  be  most  awfully  put  out  if  he 
wanted  to  come,  and  found  his  rooms  were  occupied ! 
You  must  think  of  somewhere  else  to  put  Miss 
Flood." 

"There  isn't  another  hole  or  corner.  You  know 
how  we've  all  spread  ourselves  out.  And  it'll  be  an 
excellent  lesson  for  Clive." 

Sydney  listened  in  dismay  to  this  discourse.  She 
had  no  idea  who  Clive  was,  but  she  readily  perceived 
that  while  Moreton  objected  to  giving  his  rooms  to 
any  one  else,  his  wife  was  equally  anxious  to  fill 
them.  She  jumped  to  the  rather  hasty  conclusion 


59 

that  Mrs.  Cochrane  didn't  care  particularly  for  this 
unknown  Clive. 

"But  please — it  would  be  impossible  in  any  case. 
My  mother  wouldn't  hear  of  it — I  should  never 
have  the  courage — even  if  I  had  the  money."  Syd- 
ney's voice  was  full  of  distress. 

"Are  you  of  age?"  said  Moreton. 

"Yes.    Last  month." 

"Then  you're  a  free  agent.  Think  it  over, 
Miss  Flood." 

"Only  remember,  it's  quite  settled  that  you're  to 
come  to  us.  I  don't  think  even  Lady  Flood  could  ob- 
ject to  that."  Mrs.  Cochrane's  voice  held  decision 
in  spite  of  its  sweetness.  She  was  a  woman  who  in- 
sisted upon  having  what  she  wanted.  Moreton, 
knowing  this,  sighed.  He  was  by  no  means  so  sure 
that  Clive  intended  to  go  to  Algiers. 

"I  suppose  that  would  be  the  best  plan,"  he  said 
rather  grudgingly,  for  he  had  acquired  during  ten 
years  of  married  life  the  art  of  rapid  surrender. 

"We  shall  be  very  glad  to  have  you,"  said  Mrs. 
Cochrane.  "Come  as  soon  as  you  like.  We  shall 
be  starting  in  about  a  fortnight.  Venice  is  delightful 
in  the  spring.  You  might  travel  with  us." 

"She's  got  this  young  man  to  settle  with  first,  re- 
member," said  Moreton  dryly. 

"Oh,  that  won't  take  five  minutes,"  said  Mrs. 
Cochrane,  "she  can  write  to  him  to-night.  It's  much 
better  to  write  things  like  that,  or  else  say  them  over 
the  telephone  and  then  ring  off  when  the  hys- 
terics begin!" 

"Really,  Roma!"  Moreton  went  over  to  the 
table  and  began  to  employ  himself  with  a  check-book 
and  a  fountain  pen.  Presently,  he  handed  the  green 
and  white  slip  to  Sydney. 

"Look  out — it  isn't  quite  dry.    I'll  take  the  Win- 


60       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

ter  Day  with  me — if  you've  got  some  paper  to 
wrap  it  in." 

Sydney  took  the  check.  "Thank  you  very  much," 
she  said.  She  had  never  possessed  such  a  large  sum, 
all  at  once,  before.  Lady  Flood  had  only  given  her 
daughters  small  allowances,  but  had  supplemented 
them  with  gifts  of  clothes.  Moira  had  never  pre- 
tended to  buy  more  than  shoes  and  gloves  and  veils 
with  hers.  But  Moira  had  received  a  large  sum  of 
money  on  her  marriage  under  her  father's  will,  and 
Sydney  knew  that  if  she  married  Duncan,  she  would 
receive  a  like  dowry.  But  with  this  fifty  pounds  as  a 
beginning  she  could  work — she  could  learn.  Even 
if  she  did  not  stay  long  with  the  Cochranes,  she 
could  find  rooms  and  go  on  with  her  work.  Like 
all  people  who  have  never  put  it  to  a  practical  test, 
she  believed  that  she  could  live  on  very  little. 

"I'm  afraid  poor  Mr.  Turner  will  hate  us,"  ob- 
served Roma  Cochrane. 

"But  he  knows  how  dreadfully  I've  wanted  to 
study  painting." 

"Is  he  a  good  judge  ?  What  does  he  think  of 
your  work?"  demanded  Moreton,  who  had  rashly 
put  Duncan  down  as  a  bore*  in  his  mental  category. 

"I  don't  think  he's  ever  seen  it,"  Sydney  confessed. 

Mrs.  Cochrane  lifted  her  eyebrows. 

"I  see,  he's  still  got  a  lot  to  learn  about  you, 
my  dear!" 

It  was  quite  true.  But  now  he  need  never  learn 
it.  Sydney  hoped  that  he  would  marry  soon,  some 
girl  prettier  and  of  more  importance  than  herself. 
She  would  never  have  made  him  a  good  wife.  Then 
she  hardened  her  heart  a  little  against  him.  She 
almost  persuaded  herself  that  he  couldn't  really 
love  her — he  knew  her  so  little.  He  knew  nothing 
of  her  secret  life  of  dreams,  of  this  other  self,  with 
its  strange  visions,  its  soaring  ambitions. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       61 

Duncan  -belonged  to  the  prosaic  and  bleak  life  of 
London — of  the  world  she  had  tried  to- depict  in  her 
Winter  Day  in  Chelsea  that  had  won  such  warm  ad- 
miration from  Moreton.  And  she-  was  going  away 
from  that  life.  She  would  not  miss  his  love.  She 
would  have  instead  the  tender,  half-maternal,  under- 
standing affection  of  Mrs.  Cochrane.  Already  she 
told- herself  that  she  loved  this  beautiful  woman  with 
her  high  sweet  voice,  her  indolence,  her  odd,  ca- 
ressing ways. 

Sydney  made  a  neat  parcel  of  the  drawing  and 
gave  it  to  Moreton.  They  all  went  down  slowly  to 
the  drawing-room,  and  found  Lady  Flood  sitting 
there  alone.  The  curtains  were  drawn,  the  electric 
lamps  were  lit.  All  signs  of  tea  and  Duncan  had 
disappeared.  The  hands  of  «the  little  gilt  Empire 
clock  pointed  to  a  quarter  to  seven. 

It  was  a  relief  to  Sydney  to  find  that  Duncan  had 
gone.  She  felt  that  she  could  not  meet  his  straight, 
uncompromising  gaze  just  then.  For  the  first  time 
she  realized  that  she  was  going,  in  conventional 
parlance,  to  treat  him  badly.  Last  night  she  had 
been  on  the  very  brink  of  becoming  engaged  to  him. 
Her  plea  for  time  to  think  it  over  had  been  only  an 
effort  to  obtain  a  few  hours'  reprieve  from  a  condi- 
tion of  things  that  was  necessary,  though  unattrac- 
tive. He  had  stood  then  simply  for  the  means  by 
which  her  freedom  was  to  be  bought.  Yes,  he 
would  suffer  a  little  at  first;  his  pride — -a  quality  she 
dimly  discerned  behind  that  polished,  ironical  ex- 
terior— would  be  wounded.  But  soon  he  would  dis- 
cover how  unlovable  she  was,  and  that  she  wasn't 
in  the  least  like  what  he  thought  her.  .  .  . 

"Well,  and  what's  the  verdict?"  said  Lady  Flood, 
rising  and  coming  towards  them.  She  scanned  their 
faces  and  noticed  that  Sydney  looked  slightly  ex- 
cited, almost  guilty. 


Moreton  bestowed  a  quick  glance  first  upon  the 
mother,  then  upon  the  daughter.  He  had  no  chil- 
dren of  his  own,  and  he  had  been  left  an  orphan  at 
an  early  age,  so  that  the  tie  of  parent  and  child  had 
very  little  meaning  for  him.  There  was  Clive  of 
course — he  couldn't  have  conceived  Clive  at  any  age 
deliberately  defying  him.  Clive  was  a  cousin  whom 
he  had  adopted  and  brought  up  from  boyhood. 
Theirs  was  almost  the  intimacy  of  father  and  son. 
But  Moreton  had  theoretically  doffed  all  authority 
when  Clive  came  of  age. 

He  brought  himself  back  sharply  to  the  present. 
It  was  no  moment  for  polite,  ambiguous  phrase. 
This  woman  had  to  learn  the  truth  about  her  own 
daughter,  whether  it  were  palatable  or  not.  Her 
willful  blindness,  her  indifference,  her  attempt  to 
suppress  a  beautiful  and  genuine  gift,  deserved  pun- 
ishment. He  said,  almost  brutally : 

"Miss  Flood  will  tell  you  that  I've  bought  one  of 
her  sketches.  It  is  one  of  the  cleverest  things  I've 
seen  for  years.  Your  little  girl  is  something  of  a 
genius,  Lady  Flood." 

Lady  Flood  turned  quite  pale.  So  Duncan  had 
been  right  after  all.  And  Duncan  would  assuredly 
suffer.  .  .  . 

She  was  a  woman  of  the  world  so  she  betrayed  no 
discomfiture.  She  only  said  with  a  smile :  "It's  very 
kind  of  you  to  say  so.  We  were  so  afraid  she  was 
only  wasting  her  time." 

Moreton  and  his  wife  did  not  remain  any  longer, 
so  they  scarcely  saw  the  full  effect  of  his  words. 
They  bade  good-by  to  their  hostess  and  to  Sydney, 
sent  polite  messages  to  Wanley,  and  departed,  con- 
scious however,  that  the  verdict  had  been  a  complete 
and  disagreeable  surprise  to  Lady  Flood. 

As  they  drove  through  the  dusky  London  streets 
in  Roma's  perfect  car,  Moreton  said: 


63 

"She'll  never  let  her  come." 

Mrs.  Cochrane  skillfully  arranged  her  veil  before 
a  little  mirror  that  was  suspended  in  front  of  her. 
She  waited  a  moment  before  she  answered. 

"She  will  come,  nevertheless,"  she  observed 
oracularly.  "And  I  want  her  to.  She's  a  dear  little 
thing.  You  must  keep  Clive  up  to  going  to  Algiers." 


CHAPTER  VI 

UNCAN  seemed  disappointed  at  not  seeing  you 
alone  to-day,"  said  Lady  Flood,  when  the 
visitors  had  gone,  and  she  found  herself  tete-a-tete 
with  her  daughter.  "Perhaps  it  was  hardly  fair  to 
vanish  so  completely  when  he  had  come  on  purpose 
to  hear  your  answer." 

Sydney  stood  by  the  fire-place,  in  one  of  those  im- 
movable attitudes  of  hers  that  signified  deep  thought, 
perhaps,  as  her  mother  was  just  beginning  to  learn, 
of  a  rebellious  character.  Although  she  was  so 
quiet  and  her  face  was  very  still  under  its  aureole 
of  pale  hair,  Lady  Flood  was  uncomfortably  aware 
that  she  was  in  a  state  of  suppressed  excitement. 
Of  course ! — These  people  had  turned  her  head,  with 
their  foolish,  extravagant  praise,  no  doubt  uttered 
with  a  view  of  assuring  Wanley  that  his  sister-in- 
law  was  a  person  of  superlative  genius.  Genius, 
indeed!  .  .  . 

"Which  of  your  sketches  did  Mr.  Cochrane  buy?" 
Lady  Flood  inquired,  since  no  answer  to  her  com- 
plaint anent  Duncan  seemed  to  be  at  present 
forthcoming. 

"The  Winter  Day  in  Chelsea,"  said  Sydney. 
"Mrs.  Cochrane  thought  my  work  was — bleak." 

"Winter  days  are  generally  bleak,"  said  Lady 
Flood,  prosaically. 

"That's  just  what  her  husband  said." 

Sydney  shifted  her  feet  uneasily.  It  was  she  who 
broke  the  uncomfortable  pause  that  followed. 

"I  shall  take  their  advice.  I  shall  go  to  Venice 
and  study." 

64 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       65 

Lady  Flood  was  exasperated. 

"You  will  have  to  walk  there,  then.  I  am  not 
going  to  give  you  the  money- — to  do  anything 
so  mad!" 

"I  have  enough  for  my  journey.  And  they  have 
asked  me  to  stay  with  them  at  first.  They  have  a 
palace  on  the  Grand  Canal." 

"You  are  talking  nonsense,"  said  Lady  Flood. 
"There's  no  time  for  you  to  go  and  study  between 
now  and  your  wedding.  You  are  not  going  to  keep 
Duncan  waiting  forever,  I  suppose?" 

"But,  don't  you  understand?  I'm  not  going  to 
marry  Duncan,"  said  Sydney,  with  unusual  decision. 

Lady  Flood  felt  as  ir  the  solid  earth  were  giving 
way  beneath  her  feet.  And  only  last  night  she  had 
been  able  to  congratulate  herself  that  this  curious, 
incomprehensible,  unsatisfactory  child  of  hers  would 
shortly  be  off  her  hands  forever,  would  be  relegated 
to  a  new  and  permanent  guardianship.  Duncan 
would  have  the  benefit  of  her  moods,  whims  and 
"vapors."  She  had  wondered  a  little  that  he  seemed 
so  keen  at  the  prospect. 

"You  gave  him  to  understand  yesterday  that  you 
intended  to  accept  him." 

"I  didn't  accept  him,  though,"  said  Sydney.  "I 
left  myself  a  loop-hole  of  escape.  I'm  very  thankful 
now,  that  I  did." 

"He  will  have  every  reason  to  consider  himself 
very  badly  treated.  And  you  are  diminishing  your 
own  value.  A  girl  who  can  play  fast  and  loose  with 
a  man  like  that  gets  a  bad  name.  .  .  ." 

"I'm  sorry  that  I  told  you.  If  I  hadn't  told  you, 
no  one  would  have  known  except  Duncan  and  myself. 
He  understood  the  position  perfectly — he  knew  I 
didn't  care  for  him  as  a  woman  ought  to  care  for  her 
husband.  I  don't  want  to  marry — I  want  to  work." 

Lady  Flood  made  an  irritable  movement  with  her 


66       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

foot  which  was  discernible  as  an  imperfectly- 
controlled  stamp. 

"Sydney — I'm  not  going  to  have  this  npnense ! 
Of  course,  I  can't  make  you  marry  Duncan  if  you 
don't  want  to.  But  I  can  and  will  prevent  you  from 
doing  such  a  foolish  thing  as  to  go  off  to  Italy  with 
these  people  you've  only  seen  once  in  your  life,  just 
because  a  man  comes  here  and  buys  one  of  your 
foolish  daubs,  no  doubt  to  propitiate  Wanley." 

Sydney  had  never  before  actively  opposed  her 
mother,  consequently  the  strength  of  her  will  was  an 
unknown  quantity  to  Lady  Flood.  She  said  in  a 
cold  resolute  tone: 

"I'm  sorry  you  don't  approve,  Mamma,  but  my 
mind  is  quite  made  up.  I  have  enough  money.  .  .  . 
And  very  soon  I  shall  earn  more.  .  .  ."  Her 
eyes  kindled. 

"You  will  starve  and  return  home  a  wreck!" 
prophesied  Lady  Flood.  "You've  never  roughed  it. 
You've  never  gone  without  a  meal  in  your  life. 
You're  not  fit  to  look  after  yourself!" 

"I  shall  do  as  hundreds  of  others  have  done!" 
Sydney  felt  the  fine  contempt  of  regular  meals  so 
common  among  the  well-nurtured  of  a  class  in  which 
such  things  are  "taken  for  granted." 

"You  know  nothing  of  these  people,"  pursued 
Lady  Flood,  falling  back  upon  a  second  line  of  de- 
fense. "I  am  sure  they  are  worldly  and  capricious. 
They  will  give  you  up  directly  they  are  tired  of 
you.  Mrs.  Cochrane  can  have  nothing  in  common 
with  you.  But  they  have  only  to  come  here  and 
flatter  you  and  you  are  ready  to  give  up  everything 
— your  mother,  your  marriage,  your  home — at 
their  bidding !" 

"I  like  them,"  said  Sydney  simply,  "and  I'm  sure 
Mrs.  Cochrane  won't  give  me  up.  She  is  beautiful 
— and  kind."  As  she  spoke,  with  a  kind  of  reminis- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       67 

cent  tenderness,  she  seemed  to  be  once  more  en- 
veloped in  that  warm  and  caressing  atmosphere  of 
perfect  sympathy  and  understanding.  It  was,  in 
truth,  Mrs.  Cochrane  who  was  calling  to  her.  She 
had  felt  the  woman's  influence  much  more  keenly 
than  the  man's.  It  was  strong  and  persuasive,  it 
seemed  to  hold  her. 

Lady  Flood  felt  a  sharp  sting  of  maternal  jeal- 
ousy. She  had  been  prepared  and  even  eager  to 
surrender  Sydney  into  the  expectant  arms  of  Duncan 
Turner,  rejoicing  perhaps  at  the  happy  solution  of 
a  difficult  problem.  But  to  yield  her  up  to  the  whims 
of  another  woman — a  woman  whose  mode  of  life 
and  thought  was  quite  unknown  to  her — was  a  very 
different  matter. 

"You  have  only  seen  her  once.  You  can  know 
nothing  of  her.  No  doubt  she  is  accustomed  to 
make  slaves  of  both  men  and  women — she  has  just 
that  kind  of  beauty!"  Lady  Flood  admitted  the 
beauty  somewhat  grudgingly.  But  who,  when  all 
was  said  and  done,  was  this  Mrs.  Moreton  Coch- 
rane? Mr.  Cochrane  had  served  Wanley  in  a  pro- 
fessional capacity;  he  could  not  be  called  an  intimate 
friend.  But  Mrs.  Cochrane  was,  she  felt,  a  dubious 
personality.  She  was  not  simple,  and  Lady  Flood 
was  convinced  that  in  her  hands  Sydney  would  be- 
come an  insignificant  little  pawn.  And  in  her  heart 
she  desired  to  save  her  daughter  from  such  a  fate. 
Her  ideas  of  managing  her  children  might  be  old- 
fashioned  and  out-of-date,  but  they  were  at  least 
wise  in  their  instincts  of  protection.  She  was  like  a 
clucking  angry  hen  that  would  gather  her  chickens 
for  greater  safety  under  her  wing,  although  not 
hesitating  to  administer  a  sharp  peck  upon  them  as  a 
punishment  for  their  abortive  attempt  to  stray. 

But  Sydney  was  not  in  the  mood  to  listen  to  ma- 
ternal duckings,  however  loudly  they  might  proclaim 


68       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

approaching  danger.  She  meant  to  free  herself 
from  both  the  anxious  duckings  and  the  severe,  re- 
tributive pecks.  Lady  Flood  would  only  admit  her 
to  the  ways  of  freedom  through  the  door  of  mar- 
riage. Sydney  intended  to  choose  another  door,  one 
that  had  just  become  visible  through  some  miracle 
of  good  fortune. 

Lady  Flood  could  have  wept  over  this  gratuitous 
wrecking  of  her  maternal  hopes.  Duncan  Turner 
had  convinced  her  of  his  love  for  Sydney,  and  al- 
though marriage  with  him  might  not  be  a  brilliant 
affair,  it  would  at  least,  humanly-speaking,  spell 
security  and  permanence.  He  was  a  man  whom  peo- 
ple liked  and  respected.  She  was  certain  that  he 
would  have  been  both  kind  and  judicious  in  his  treat- 
ment of  Sydney.  He  admired  her,  believed  in  her 
talent,  was  ready  to  let  her  develop  it.  What  could 
any  woman  desire  more?  He  had  private  means,  as 
Lady  Flood  had  long  ago  been  careful  to  ascertain. 
Sydney  had  had  the  rare  good  sense  to  show  her 
appreciation  of  his  offer,  and  if  only  the  Cochranes 
had  come  twenty-four  hours  later,  all  their  persua- 
sions would  hardly  have  availed  to  detach  her  from 
London.  What  had  made  her  change  her  mind  so 
suddenly?  She  was  ready  to  sacrifice  Duncan  with- 
out a  thought  for  the  pain  she  was  going  to  inflict 
upon  him.  Lady  Flood  had  not  heard  Mrs.  Coch- 
rane's  question:  "Who  was  that  dull  young  man 
at  tea?"  but  she  guessed  that  something  must 
have  been  said — something  perhaps  contemptuous 
or  disparaging. 

"You  forget — -they  are  friends  of  Wanley's," 
said  Sydney;  "it  was  he  who  asked  them  to  come  to 
the  house." 

Wanley's  opinion  had  of  late  counted  for  a  good 
deal  in  the  Flood  household. 

"It  is  one  thing  for  a  young  man  to  know  and  like 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       69 

people,  but  quite  another  for  a  girl  to  go  abroad 
with  them  after  an  hour's  acquaintance.  I'm  sure  if 
Wanley  were  here  he  would  be  the  first  to  dis- 
suade you." 

Sydney  was  silent.  She  knew  that  she  meant  to 
go,  in  face  of  all  imaginable  obstacles.  Even  if  the 
expedition  were  to  end  in  disaster,  she  would  still 
make  the  attempt.  She  must  have  freedom — leisure. 
Not  for  the  idle  things  of  pleasure,  but  for  the  pur- 
suit of  a  serious  aim.  Since  she  had  heard  More- 
ton's  more  than  encouraging  words  she  had  felt 
within  herself  an  immense  capacity  and  desire  for 
work.  Ambition — rthe  strong  ambition  of  one-and- 
twenty — stirred  within  her.  She  belonged  to  a  gen- 
eration that  cries  aloud  for  liberty  to  follow  its  own 
bent.  But  it  would  be  useless  to  try  to  ex- 
plain to  Lady  Flood  these  feelings  and  aspira- 
tions. They  would  only  meet  with  miscomprehen- 
sion, condemnation. 

"I  did  not  care  for  Mrs.  Cochrane.  Who  was 
she,  I  wonder?"  said  Lady  Flood. 

"Does  it  matter?"  said  Sydney. 

"Of  course  it  matters  a  great  deal.  She  looks  like 
an  actress." 

"You  only  say  that  because  she  is  beautiful  and 
perfectly  dressed." 

"And  darkens  her  eyebrows,  and  whitens  her 
face !" 

Sydney  relapsed  into  her  old  silence.  But  her 
thoughts  were  full  of  Roma  Cochrane.  She  remem- 
bered the  touch  of  her,  the  caressing  tones  of  her 
voice,  her  apparent  eagerness  that  she  should  go  and 
stay  with  them.  She  had  never  before  felt  so  quickly 
in  sympathy  with  any  one.  She  had  never  known 
love;  her  sentiment  for  Duncan  had  been  a  weak, 
chilly  liking.  But  she  felt  a  curious  affection  for 
Mrs.  Cochrane.  She  wanted  to  see  her  again,  to  be 


70       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

assured  that  the  whole  ecstatic  interview  had  not 
been  a  beautiful,  flattering  dream.  But  of  course  it 
was  true — a  dream  that  would  very  soon  be  fulfilled, 
since  she  meant  to  go  with  them  at  any  cost.  She 
would  leave  this  bleakness  behind  her.  She  would 
live  for  a  while  in  the  sunshine.  She  would  put  what 
Moreton  had  called  her  "great  little  gift"  to 
the  test. 

"You  must  please  put  this  mad  project  out  of 
your  head,  Sydney,"  said  Lady  Flood,  making  one 
more  attempt  to  re-assert  her  ancient  authority  over 
her  refractory  daughter,  "I'm  not  going  to  let  you 
start  off  on  this  wild-goose  chase.  I  strongly  advise 
you  to  marry  Duncan.  You  may  never  get  such  a 
chance  again.  He  is  coming  to-morrow,  and  I  said 
you  would  telephone  to  him  to  let  him  know  at 
what  time." 

"I  will  telephone  in  the  morning,"  said  Sydney. 

"I  wish  you  to  see  him.  It  is  the  kind  of  thing 
that  you  must  explain  yourself.  I  hope  you  will  find 
him  as  reasonable  as  you  evidently  expect." 

Sydney  remembered  Mrs.  Cochrane's  advice  to 
her — to  telephone,  and  then  ring  off  when  the  hys- 
terics began.  No  doubt  it  was  the  fruit  of  experi- 
ence, yet  the  words,  even  when  they  were  uttered, 
had  jarred  vaguely  because  something  in  her  heart 
had  told  her  she  owed  at  least  loyalty  to  this  man 
who  had  assured  her  of  his  love,  and  was  prepared 
to  make  sacrifices  in  order  to  marry  her.  Only,  she 
couldn't  let  Duncan  stand  between  her  and  absolute 
freedom.  She  would  explain  it  all  to  him.  She  was 
sure  that  he  would  understand.  If  he  did  not  approve 
he  would  still  understand.  It  was  curious  that  she 
had  already  come  to  rely  implicitly  upon  his  sympa- 
thetic comprehension,  nor  did  she  wish  to  shirk  the 
task  of  explaining  the  new  situation  to  him.  It  could 


not  compare,  for  instance,  with  the  difficulty  of  tell- 
ing her  mother. 

Lady  Flood  clung  to  the  meager  hope  that  Dun- 
can would,  by  his  eloquence,  turn  Sydney  from  her 
decision.  He  might,  even  yet,  persuade  her  to  marry 
him.  To-night  she  was  in  a  nervous,  excited  state, 
but  to-morrow  she  would  no  doubt  see  things  in 
their  proper  light,  with  all  the  glamor  gone 
from  them. 

She  believed  still  that  Duncan's  love  would  tri- 
umph over  this  new-born  influence  of  Mrs.  Coch- 
rane's.  Unfortunately,  the  latter  had  entered  Syd- 
ney's life  at  a  very  critical  moment  when  she  was 
actually  standing  at  the  cross-roads.  It  was  an 
example,  Lady  Flood  considered,  of  the  perversity 
of  fate.  Twenty-four  hours  later,  and  the  Coch- 
ranes  would  have  come  in  vain.  She  was  inclined  to 
blame  Duncan  for  having  failed  to  elicit  a  definite 
answer  from  Sydney  on  the  previous  evening. 
Either  he  took  too  much  for  granted,  or  he  left  too 
much  to  chance.  Well,  he  would  be  the  one 
to  suffer. 

As  if  to  show  that  she  could  still  exercise  a  cer- 
tain authority  over  her  daughter,  Lady  Flood 
played  a  far  greater  number  of  games  of  poker- 
patience  than  usual,  that  evening.  Sydney,  stimu- 
lated into  a  kind  of  defiance,  actually  defeated  her 
more  than  once.  But  her  thoughts  often  strayed 
very  far  from  the  game.  She  was  thinking  of  Roma 
Cochrane,  and  of  the  little  green  and  white  slip  of 
paper  lying  upstairs  that  was  to  open  the  door  of  a 
new  and  thrilling  world  to  her. 


CHAPTER  VII 

DUNCAN  TURNER  arrived,  not  without  misgiving, 
on  the  following  day.  It  was  Lady  Flood  who, 
after  all,  had  rung  him  up  and  invited  him  to  tea. 
She  felt  that  she  could  not  trust  Sydney  to  speak  to 
him  over  the  telephone;  she  might  blurt  out  the 
truth,  and  even  prevent  him  from  coming  at  all. 
Lady  Flood  was  determined,  therefore,  that  he 
should  not  only  come,  but  that  he  should  see  Sydney 
quite  alone.  She  had  an  engagement  herself  that 
afternoon,  and  she  made  up  her  mind  not  to  return 
until  late.  They  should  not  be  interrupted.  Duncan 
was  to  have  a  fair  field.  All  her  hopes  were  now 
centered  upon  him.  She  had  not  again  broached  the 
subject  to  Sydney,  who  had  relapsed  into  her  normal 
mood  of  obstinate  reticence.  Lady  Flood  missed 
Moira  more  than  ever.  She  would  have  been  glad 
to  have  her  there,  so  as  to  discuss  the  situation  with 
her.  Meals  alone  with  Sydney  were  apt  to  be 
trying. 

Although  Duncan  had  been  unaware  of  Moreton 
Gochrane's  genius  for  discovering  new  and  prom- 
ising artists  even  in  their  most  embryonic  stages,  he 
had  felt  in  his  bones  that  something  unpleasant  and 
possibly  destructive  would  result  from  that  interview 
in  the  studio.  This  impression  'had  remained  with 
him  all  night;  it  had  scarcely  been  allayed  by  Lady 
Flood's  invitation  to  tea.  He  had  readily  perceived 
the  absorbing  fascination  of  Mrs.  Cochrane,  al- 
though he  knew  that  she  was  not  a  woman  who  could 
ever  weave  spells  for  himself.  But  she  was  un- 
doubtedly one  of  those  beautiful  witches  who  seem  to 

73 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       73 

dull  the  very  outlines  of  other  women,  with  their  deli- 
cate, exquisite  radiance.  Beside  her,  Sydney  had 
looked  like  a  drooping  white  flower.  He  had  wanted 
to  protect  her,  to  carry  her  out  of  reach  of  such  an 
alter,  influence.  But  he  also  realized  that  Sydney 
did  not  wish  to  be  rescued,  and  would  have  sharply 
resented  any  attempted  interference. 

She  was  alone  when  he  entered  the  drawing-room, 
dressed,  as  she  had  been  yesterday,  in  that  loose- 
fitting  gray  dress  that  made  her  look  almost  as  sim- 
ple as  a  little  Quaker  maiden.  She  rose  and  held  out 
her  hand,  smiling.  They  sat  down  opposite  to  each 
other.  Wright  came  in  with  the  tea,  and,  although 
he  made  no  comment  on  returning  to  the  kitchen,  he 
still  clung  to  his  first  belief  that  there  would  be  a 
second  wedding  in  the  house. 

Although  Duncan  dropped  her  hand  almost  as 
soon  as  he  had  taken  it,  and  his  words  of  greeting 
were  quite  commonplace,  there  was  something  in  his 
face  that  made  Sydney  fear.  .  .  .  His  eyes  sought 
hers  with  a  look  that  was  at  once  eager  and  wistful, 
even  a  little  anxious,  as  if  he  had  been  longing  dur- 
ing these  hours  of  absence  to  gaze  upon  her 
and  was  now  able  to  satisfy  that  longing.  It  seemed 
to  teach  her  that  Duncan's  love  was  not  the  kind  of 
love  that  is  easily  aroused  nor  that  can  change 
quickly.  He  loved  her,  and  she  was  going  to  hurt 
him.  All  this  time  she  had  thought  of  any  possible 
hurt  to  him  with  a  callousness  of  feeling  that  showed 
she  did  not  realize  what  her  decision  might  mean  to 
him.  But  then  he  had  known  that  she  didn't  care  for 
him.  She  had  never  deceived  him  about  those  rea- 
sons which  might  have  induced  her  to  accept  his 
offer.  Yesterday  he  had  represented  the  door  of 
escape — the  only  legitimate  one  in  Lady  Flood's  Vic- 
torian opinion.  To-day  he  was  the  man  who  was 
trying  to  stand  in  the  way  of  her  development.  He 


74       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

had  agreed  to  her  conditions  because  therein  lay  his 
only  chance  to  win  her.  Had  she  been  more  experi- 
enced, she  would  have  beheld  in  this  submission  the 
measure  of  his  love. 

She  began  to  pour  out  the  tea,  and  gave  him  a 
cup.  He  ventured  to  say: 

"You  know  I  haven't  heard  Mr.  Cochrane's  ver- 
dict yet.  .  .  ." 

It  was  kind  of  him,  she  thought,  to  speak  on  a 
matter  indifferent  to  himself.  Yet — did  it  not  touch 
him  very  closely,  very  vitally?  She  was  not  yet 
sufficiently  courageous  to  tell  him  what  the  verdict 
had  been,  and  how  it  would  necessarily  affect  both 
his  life  and  her  own.  She  only  said: 

"What  did  you  think  of  them?  Did  you  like 
them?" 

Duncan  had  not  liked  them  at  all,  and,  if  pressed 
for  a  reason,  he  would  probably  have  given  no  better 
one  than  that  they  were  "not  his  sort."  But  he  was 
a  man  of  wisdom,  and  he  replied: 

"I  am  not  in  a  position  to  express  an  opinion.  It 
would  be  rash,  considering  I  only  saw  them  for  a  few 
minutes  and  hardly  talked  to  them  at  all!" 

"But  didn't  you  think  her  beautiful?  Very  beau- 
tiful?" Her  tone  was  urgent.  She  longed  to  know 
if  Duncan  had  been  aware  of  that  beauty. 

He  took  a  little  cake  from  a  plate  near  him, 
and  said: 

"Yes,  she  is  beautiful.  But  I've  seen  faces  I  ad- 
mired more." 

"I  am  going  to  Venice  with  them  in  a  few  weeks 
— to  study  painting,"  said  Sydney. 

"You  are  going  away  to  Venice  to  study  paint- 
ing?" he  repeated  blankly. 

The  shock  had  been  both  sharp  and  unexpected. 
His  face  was  a  shade  paler.  But  he  was  habitually 
self-controlled,  had  cultivated  immovability  of  feat- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       75 

ure  as  men  who  frequently  speak  in  public  must 
necessarily  do,  and  he  had  himself  well  in  hand. 

The  day  was  slightly  foggy,  and  a  premature 
darkness  had  fallen  upon  London.  Wright  had 
switched  on  the  electric  lights  before  leaving  the 
room.  Now  in  the  soft  rose-shaded  glow  of  those 
cleverly-screened  lamps  Sydney's  face  seemed  to  pos- 
sess an  unusual  loveliness  that  tore  at  his  heart. 

"You  astonish  me !"  he  said.  "I  imagined  we 
were  going  to  be  married  in  a  few  weeks." 

"I'm  sorry — but  I've  quite  given  up  that  idea," 
said  Sydney.  But  as  she  said  the  words,  she  did  not 
dare  meet  his  eyes. 

He  perceived,  however,  that  she  had  dealt  the 
blow  in  complete  ignorance  of  its  mortal  quality.  She 
was  like  a  child  that  fires  a  loaded  pistol  playfully 
at  the  head  of  another.  She  had  seen  a  new  outlet 
of  escape,  and  who  could  blame  her  for  choosing 
it?  She  had  no  thought  for  him  at  all. 

"Our  understanding — shall  we  call  it? — must 
have  been  quite  one  of  the  briefest  on  record,"  he 
said,  in  an  admirably  colorless  tone. 

To  show  her  the  extent  of  his  wound,  would  have 
been  an  act  of  gratuitous  cruelty,  as  cruel  indeed 
as  her  own,  but  accomplished,  unlike  hers,  with  de- 
liberately malicious  intent. 

"It  wasn't  exactly  an  understanding,  though  I'm 
afraid  I  did  give  you  a  wrong  impression,"  said 
Sydney  slowly. 

"The  Cochranes  advised  you  to  study  seriously.?" 
he  inquired. 

"Yes.  And  Mr.  Cochrane  doesn't  think  a  mar- 
ried woman  can  give  herself  so  completely  to  an 
artistic  career  as  a  girl  can.  He  wants  me  to  give 
my  talent — such  as  it  is — a  fair  trial  for  the  next 
few  years." 

Duncan's  heart  sank. 


76       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

"I  take  it  that  his  advice  was  quite  against  mar- 
riage? I  am  indeed  grateful  for  his  admirably- 
timed  interference,"  he  managed  to  say. 

"He  was  only  against  it  because  he  really  believes 
I  have  talent  and  that  I  ought  to  work.  He  bought 
one  of  my  sketches — ?A  Winter  Day  in  Chelsea.  Just 
a  bit  of  the  river  and  bridge  and  sky,  and  a  few 
sea-gulls." 

"Are  you  seriously  telling  me  that  Moreton  Coch- 
rane  has  bought  one  of  your  pictures?"  There  was 
surprise,  of  a  flattering  kind,  in  his  voice. 

For  he  had  learned  something  of  Moreton  that 
very  day  from  a  friend  of  his.  "One  of  those 
amateur  picture-dealers  and  curio-hunters  that  help 
millionaires  to  spend  their  money,"  the  friend  had 
answered.  "They  say  his  flair  never  fails,  and  he 
always  knows  what's  what.  Who  can  blame  him  for 
using  it?  He's  got  a  very  expensive  wife  to  keep. 
Still  Cochrane  isn't  a  bad  chap  in  his  way.  He's 
done  many  good  turns  to  struggling  young  artists — 
given  them  their  first  leg  up,  as  it  were." 

Primed  with  this  new  knowledge,  Duncan  could 
feel  something  of  Sydney's  pride  in  the  sale  of  her 
first  picture. 

"Yes.  He  called  it  a  little  gem.  Don't  think  me 
conceited,  please,  for  telling  you  all  this.  It's  only 
to  show  you  that — that  there  is  some  chance  of  my 
being  able  to  succeed.  .  .  ." 

Duncan  looked  at  her  curiously.  From  her  face 
his  eyes  traveled  to  her  hands.  The  sleeves  of  her 
dress  were  cut  short  and  at  the  elbows  they  were 
turned  back  with  little  white  frills.  It  was  a  fashion 
he  rather  admired,  and  Sydney's  arms  though  thin 
were  very  white.  Her  hands  too  were  white,  slen- 
der, and  cared  for — a  lady's  hands.  He  had  often 
noticed  them  before,  but  he  had  never  thought  of 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON       77 

them  as  skilled  in  any  way,  or  of  possessing  unusual 
powers.  But  he  knew  from  what  his  friend  had 
said  that  Moreton  would  never  have  bought  one  of 
her  pictures  unless  he  had  been  assured  of  its  super- 
lative merit.  Cochrane's  own  collection  of  modern 
artists,  for  which  he  had  paid  hundreds,  was  now 
probably  worth  thousands,  so  his  friend  had  told 
him.  Most  of  the  well-known  artists  of  the  day 
were  represented  therein,  and  it  was  possible  some 
of  them  now  regretted  the  mere  songs  they  had  ac- 
cepted from  Moreton  in  place  of  those  early  treas- 
ures of  their  brush. 

"It  was  certainly  impertinent  on  my  part  to  aspire 
to  the  hand  of  a  genius,"  he  said,  in  the  light  ironical 
tone  he  had  so  assiduously  cultivated.  It  stood  him 
in  good  stead  now.  Sydney  was  almost  able  to  as- 
sure herself  that  though  his  pride  was  hurt  he  didn't 
really  care.  .  .  . 

"I  should  never  have  made  you  happy,"  she  said, 
raising  her  eyes  to  his. 

Duncan  met  the  look  squarely.  But  self-control 
was  difficult,  it  was  indeed  only  rendered  possible  by  a 
determined  concentration  of  his  own  thoughts  upon 
Sydney's  point  of  view.  Although  his  acute  misery 
had  brought  to  him  a  sense  of  loss  that  made  the 
whole  world  seem  suddenly  dark  and  empty,  he  did 
not  in  his  heart  blame  her.  He  understood,  and 
readily  forgave  her.  She  had  this  gift,  this  creative 
gift,  and  she  wished  to  use  it,  to  cultivate  it.  Had 
she  not  spoken  yesterday  of  feeling  starved  and  hun- 
gry when  she  had  not  the  leisure  in  which  to  paint? 
He  knew  that  if,  in  the  face  of  this  need  of  hers,  he 
were  to  try  to  prevail  upon  her  to  marry  him,  he 
might  make  her  perhaps  the  most  miserable  woman 
alive.  Later  on,  when  she  had  studied  and  satisfied 
to  a  certain  extent  that  craving  for  self-expression. 


78       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

.  .  .  But  he  dared  not  think  of  later  on.  The  Coch- 
ranes  were  going  to  take  her  away.  All  sorts  of 
strange,  novel,  and  perhaps  sinister  influences  might 
come  into  her  life.  He  pictured  the  milieu,  rich 
undoubtedly,  adventurous,  roving,  restless,  not  too 
conventional.  And  in  the  midst  of  it  little  Sydney, 
with  her  grave  eyes,  her  bobbed  pale  hair.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  you  would  have  made  me  happy — you  were 
making  me  happy,"  he  permitted  himself  to  assure 
her.  "You  see — I  love  you,  Sydney.  You  don't 
quite  realize  it  I  think,  and  I'm  speaking  a  strange 
language  to  you."  He  rose  to  his  feet.  Her  figure 
had  become  suddenly  a  little  blurred.  It  was  the 
strong  light  perhaps — no,  the  lamps  were  all  most 
carefully  shaded.  There  was  a  moment  in  which  he 
felt  he  must  fling  himself  on  his  knees,  and  entreat 
her  not  to  condemn  him  to  this  intolerable  misery, 
to  a  solitude  haunted  by  her  face,  her  voice.  But 
the  impulse  passed,  and  he  even  regretted  those  last 
passionate  words  since  they  elicited  from  her  a  gen- 
tle: "I  am  sorry  ...  if  I've  said  anything  to 
hurt  you.  .  .  ." 

He  took  her  hand  and  gripped  it  in  his.  "I  know 
it  is  absurd  and  banal  to  say  anything  of  the  kind, 
but,  Sydney,  it  seems  to  me  that  in  going  to  Italy 
with  these  people  whom  you  know  so  little,  you  are 
taking  rather  a  plunge  into  the  unknown.  And  if 
things  go  wrong  and  I  can  ever  be  of  any  use  to  you 
as  a  friend,  you'll  send  for  me  I  hope  .  .  .  knowing 
that  I'd  come  across  land  and  sea — at  any  time — to 
help  you." 

"Thank  you  very  much.  But  1  feel  quite  sure  that 
nothing  will  go  wrong."  Her  tone  was  one  of 
bright  confidence  in  the  future. 

"Good-by,  Sydney,"  said  Duncan. 

"Good-by,"  she  answered.  "You  must  come  and 
see  Mamma  sometimes  when  I'm  gone.  She's  awfully 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON       79 

against  it,  of  course,  every  one  is  against  it.  But 
you — I'm  sure  you  can  get  her  to  see  that  it  was 
necessary.  .  .  ." 

He  promised  to  come.  Then  he  went  towards  the 
door.  Once  he  turned.  She  was  standing  there,  un- 
perturbed, absorbed  in  her  dreams  of  the  future. 
And  he  had  no  place  in  them.  Not  only  had  she  no 
love  for  him,  but  she  had  hardly  any  idea  of  what 
his  love  for  her  might  mean.  Her  awakening — the 
awakening  of  Sydney — would  perhaps  fall  into 
harsher  hands  than  his  own.  .  .  . 

When  Lady  Flood  returned  about  seven  o'clock, 
she  found  Sydney  sitting  there  alone. 

"Did  Duncan  come?"  she  inquired. 

"Yes.  He  was  here  to  tea.  But  he  didn't  stay 
very  long."  Sydney  had  risen  and  was  helping  her 
mother  to  take  off  an  opulent  fur  coat. 

She  folded  the  coat,  laid  it  over  a  chair,  appar- 
ently absorbed  in  this  small  activity.  Lady  Flood  sat 
down  in  the  arm-chair  that  custom  had  made 
her  own. 

"I  hope  you  did  not  say  anything  foolish  to  him 
about  this  mad  scheme  of  going  to  Italy  with  the 
Cochranes,"  she  said. 

"I  told  him  that  I  was  going,"  said  Sydney. 

"You  are  not  going!  I  forbid  you  to  talk 
like  that!" 

Lady  Flood  had  the  feeling  that  during  the  last 
twenty-four  hours,  Sydney  had  passed  quite  beyond 
her  control.  Some  subtle  realization  of  the  fact 
that  Moira  was  now  independent  of  her  mother 
might  be  inciting  this  elder  daughter  to  rebellion. 
But  Moira  was  a  married  woman,  responsible  only 
to  her  husband. 

"I  told  Duncan  everything.  I  explained  it  all  to 
him.  He  is  very  kind — he  quite  understood,  al- 


though  I  think  I  hurt  him.  But  I  shall  still  have 
his  friendship." 

Lady  Flood  sprang  up,  with  blazing  eyes.  She 
came  towards  Sydney  almost  threateningly. 

"If  you  disobey  me,  I  will  wash  my  hands  of  you ! 
I  will  leave  everything  to  Moira  and  Jack — you 
shall  have  only  the  portion  your  father  settled  on 
you,  at  your  marriage  or  at  my  death.  You  shall  have 
no  allowance  from  me.  I  will  not  be  an  accessory  to 
this  criminal  folly !  Girls  in  your  position  don't  work 
for  their  living.  .  .  .  For  the  present  you  will  be  a 
pauper — dependent  upon  what  you  make." 

Sydney  thought  of  the  fifty  pounds  which  surely 
for  a  long  time  would  keep  the  wolf  from  the 
door. 

"I  shall  earn,"  she  said  indifferently. 

She  felt  certain  of  success.  Moreton  Cochrane 
would  never  have  urged  her  to  take  this  drastic  step 
and  turn  away  from  an  eminently  suitable  marriage, 
if  he  had  not  believed  that  she  possessed  a  genuine 
gift.  From  the  moment  he  had  spoken,  her  mind 
had  been  made  up.  She  meant  to  work  diligently, 
strenuously.  She  knew  that  she  had  an  infinite 
capacity  for  work.  She  had  that  energy  which  is  so 
often  observable  in  the  creative  artist  like  a  thing  of 
flame  urging  the  fragile  body  to  endeavor.  Sydney 
had  no  conceit.  She  was  aware  that  she  had  almost 
everything  to  learn.  She  was  at  the  beginning  of 
things,  and  all  the  real  drudgery  lay  before  her.  She 
had  an  arduous  apprenticeship  to  serve.  But  the 
power  was  there,  consuming  her.  .  .  . 

Even  her  mother's  anger,  so  largely  intermingled 
with  pain,  scarcely  touched  her.  She  would  soon  be 
out  of  ear-shot  of  the  duckings,  out  of  reach  of  the 
pecks.  Conscience  was  not  quite  easy,  but  Sydney's 
conscience  had  not  been  sedulously  trained.  She  was 
dimly  aware  that  she  was  "behaving  badly"  to  both 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       81 

Duncan  and  her  mother.  But  in  this  lay  the  proof 
of  the  urgency  of  her  task.  Other  women  left  home 
to  study  for  professions,  to  marry,  even  to  become 
nuns — if  they  were  Catholics — but  it  was  still  of 
immense  difficulty  for  a  girl  living  in  wealthy  in- 
dolence, to  leave  her  home  for  any  reason  save  that 
of  marriage. 

Lady  Flood  left  the  room,  angrily.  She  had  ever 
regarded  those  women  who  found  their  grown-up 
daughters  unmanageable,  as  "poor  creatures";  she 
had  always  been  mistress  in  her  own  house ;  her  word 
was  law.  She  had  a  strong  will,  an  indolent  but 
dominating  personality,  and  when  they  were  little 
she  had  exacted  an  implicit  obedience  from  her  chil- 
dren. The  War  .  .  .  yes,  the  War  was  to  blame 
for  this  emancipation  of  the  young.  Girls  had  been 
thrust  suddenly  into  positions  of  responsibility,  had 
acquitted  themselves  well,  had  learnt  their  own  value. 
Like  their  brothers  they  had  done  their  part  in  "win- 
ning the  War'."  Her  eighteen  months  in  the  hos- 
pital had  given  Sydney  a  glimpse  of  that  freedom 
she  was  now  claiming  as  a  permanent  condition  of 
her  life. 

Sydney  felt  a  little  bruised  when  her  mother  had 
gone  out  of  the  room.  The  scars  of  battle  still 
smarted.  She  had  won,  but  she  had  had  to  pay 
the  price.  Payment  was  an  essential  part  of  victory. 
You  could  have  nothing  without  sacrifice.  Perhaps 
she  would  have  to  pay  still  more  heavily  before  her 
final  purpose  were  achieved.  But  she  was  young; 
she  had  the  hope,  the  indomitable  courage  of  youth, 
the  simple  uncomplicated  outlook  that  often  accom- 
panies a  complete  lack  of  worldly  experience.  Dun- 
can's valedictory  words  had  not  impaired  that  fine 
courage  and  confidence  of  hers. 

She  was  quite  certain  that  she  should  never  send 
for  him.  Let  him  forget  her  .  .  .  and  find  some 


82       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

other  wife  among  the  thousands  of  pretty  and  charm- 
ing girls  in  London.  She  was  inclined  to  believe 
far  more  sincerely  in  the  permanence  of  Mrs.  Coch- 
ran's  friendship  for  her  than  in  that  of  Dun- 
can's love. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Q  YDNEY  received  a  note  from  Mrs.  Cochrane  a 
i3  couple  of  days  later  inviting  her  to  tea.  "Both 
Moreton  and  I  are  longing  to  know  what  decision 
you've  come  to,"  she  wrote.  "Remember  that  our 
invitation  still  holds  good,  and  it  will  simplify  things 
if  you  can  travel  with  us.  We  shall  leave  the  first 
days  of  April.  I  can  only  tell  you  it  will  be  a  great 
pleasure  to  us  both  if  you  will  make  your  home  with 
us  for  some  time  to  come." 

Lady  Flood  had  other  engagements  that  after- 
noon, and  Sydney  was  able,  therefore,  to  accept  the 
invitation.  The  Cochranes  were  then  occupying  a 
furnished  flat  in  the  neighborhood  of  Sloane  Square, 
as  they  had  let  their  own  house  in  London  for  the 
season.  The  apartment  had  been  lent  to  them  by  a 
friend  and  was  charmingly  furnished  and  decorated, 
with  just  that  kind  of  modern  luxury  which  Mrs. 
Cochrane  required. 

She  was  alone,  to  Sydney's  joy,  sitting  reading  be- 
side a  generous  fire,  for  the  afternoon  was  very  cold. 
The  room  was  extravagantly  full  of  flowers;  the 
fragrance  of  them  greeted  her  upon  the  threshold. 
There  were  opulent  bowls  of  roses,  violets,  carna- 
tions and  narcissus.  A  small  grand  piano  was  stand- 
ing open  with  some  loose  music  lying  upon  it. 
Several  tables  were  covered  with  books  and  illus- 
trated papers. 

Sydney  came  in,  flushed  and  eager,  but  feeling 
also  a  little  shy  of  her  new  friend.  She  had  never 
indulged,  as  many  girls  do,  in  facile  friendships  for 
other  women ;  she  even  shrank  a  little  from  intimacy. 

83 


84        THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

This  new  friendship  seemed  to  her,  therefore,  very 
wonderful,  a  thing  not  of  every  day,  but  one  that 
was  to  play  an  important  part  in  her  life. 

Sydney,  who  was  often  careless  about  her  clothes, 
had  to-day  arrayed  herself  with  especial  care.  Mrs. 
Cochrane  had  revealed  to  her  what  clothes  could  be 
in  the  hands  of  an  artist,  and  for  the  first  time  Syd- 
ney had  felt  dissatisfied  with  the  really  skillful  dress- 
maker whom  Lady  Flood  employed.  She  and 
Moira  had  always  been  dressed  very  like  the  other 
girls  of  their  set.  But  there  was  something  indi- 
vidual and  artistic,  without  being  in  the  least  outre, 
about  Mrs.  Cochrane's  attire,  that  belonged  to  a 
very  different  order  of  things. 

She  wore  on  that  chilly  spring  day  a  dress  of 
softest  velvet  of  some  indescribable  "mole"  shade. 
There  was  a  narrow  border  of  fur  about  the  low-cut 
throat.  On  her  tiny  feet  were  gold  shoes.  She 
looked  indolent,  and  her  somnolent  dark  eyes 
seemed  to  reflect  mysteries  like  those  of  an  Orien- 
tal dreamer. 

"Well,  my  dear  child,  I'm  delighted  to  see  you. 
Sit  down  and  tell  me  whether  you've  got  rid  of  the 
dull  young  man." 

For  the  second  time  a  vague  sense  of  disloyalty 
towards  the  one  man  who  in  her  short  life  had  cared 
for  her  and  told  her  so,  stung  Sydney  with  self- 
reproach  as  she  answered: 

"Yes.  I've  told  him  that  I  can't  marry  him.  We 
were  not  really  engaged." 

"Did  he  make  it  very  difficult  for  you?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Cochrane,  who  was  always  interested  in  the 
various  aspects  of  love. 

Sydney  shook  her  head.  "He  understood,  I  think," 
she  said  slowly.  She  was  aware  that  she  had  not 
"got  rid  of  him"  forever.  She  had  hardly  wished 
to  do  that,  and  she  knew  that  her  present  decision 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       85 

had  not  deprived  him  of  all  hope.  His  last  words 
had  revealed  that,  and  had  expressed  also  a  deep, 
unmeasured  fidelity  that  had  touched  her  heart.  She 
had  never  liked  him  so  much  as  she  had  done  at  that 
moment  of  farewell.  "1  was  sorry  to  hurt  him, 
when  it  came  to  the  point,"  she  proceeded  with 
knitted  brow,  "and  then  there  was  Mamma.  .  .  ." 

"Ah !    Lady  Flood  objected  ?" 

"Yes,  very  much.  More  than  I  thought  she 
would.  She  says  she  won't  give  me  any  money.  I 
shall  be  a  pauper!" 

"Still  you  persisted?  That  was  very  courageous 
of  you !" 

"It  did  require  some  courage.  Duncan  says  there 
is  a  distinct  aroma  of  the  early-Victorian  period 
about  Mamma !" 

Mrs.  Cochrane  looked  at  her  in  some  astonish- 
ment. The  girl  was  either  very  courageous  or  very 
ignorant.  Nothing  would  have  alarmed  Roma  her- 
self so  much  as  being  suddenly  deprived  of  funds. 
She  always  wanted  money  and  a  great  deal  of  it. 
Life  was  costly.  .  .  .  This  child  had  evidently  not 
the  least  idea  how  costly  it  could  be. 

"But,  my  dear  Sydney.  ..."  she  murmured,  call- 
ing her'by  her  name  for  the  first  time.  She  wondered 
if  she  ought  to  encourage  her  to  sacrifice  so  much  in 
the  pursuit  of  an  end  so  nebulous.  Supposing  she 
failed?  Roma  thought  of  one  or  two  rare  examples 
when  Moreton's  vaunted  swans  had  proved  to  be 
the  most  indubitable  geese. 

Sydney  interrupted  her  with  an  obstinate : 

"I  don't  care !  I  want  to  paint,  more  than  any- 
thing else  in  the  world." 

Roma  regarded  her  with  a  close  but  not  unfriendly 
scrutiny.  There  was  something  attractive  about  this 
curious  resolution,  allied  to  an  apparent  physical 
fragility.  Sydney  was  really  quite  strong,  but  she 


86       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

had  the  delicate  look  that  extreme  fairness  so 
often  gives. 

"And  then  the  idea  of  Venice — if  you've  never 
seen  it — must  be  an  additional  attraction?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sydney.  She  was  trembling  with  ex- 
citement, and  had  imperfect  control  over  her  voice. 

"I've  a  strong  conviction  that  you  won't  regret 
it,"  said  Mrs.  Cochrane.  "All  the  really  valuable 
things  of  life — the  things  that  profoundly  matter — 
are  worth  fighting  and  paying  for.  I  can  see  you're 
not  afraid  of  poverty  or  hard  work." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  anything  except  of  my  pres- 
ent life." 

"I  wonder  if  we've  done  right  to  encourage  you?" 
said  Roma.  "Of  course,  it  would  have  been  wrong 
of  Moreton  to  give  you  the  advice  he  did  if  he 
hadn't  been  sure  you  had  the  talent.  But  he  said  to 
me  twice  after  we  came  home  the  other  night, 
'That  little  girl  has  genius.' ' 

Sydney  glowed. 

"And  people  as  a  rule  think  a  great  deal  of  More- 
ton's  opinion,"  said  Mrs.  Cochrane,  with  a  com- 
fortable remembrance  of  its  financial  value. 

"Yes,  so  Wanley  told  me." 

"It's  odd  to  think  you  are  Lady  Wanley's  sister. 
She's  just  like  a  thousand  other  lovely  well-bred 
women.  Did  you  get  on  well  together?" 

"Very  well.  But  we  weren't  at  all  intimate,"  said 
Sydney.  "She  was  always  nice  to  me,  but  I  used  to 
feel  she  despised  me  because  I  didn't  care  for  the 
things  she  cared  for." 

Looking  back,  she  could  see  how  extraordinarily 
solitary  her  position  had  been. 

"And  you  don't  regret  giving  up  this  marriage?" 

"No — I  never  wanted  to  marry  Duncan.  I  liked 
him,  but  it  was  a  relief  when  I  woke  up  yesterday 
morning  to  feel  I  was  free." 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       87 

Mrs.  Cochrane  put  out  her  slender  hand  and 
touched  Sydney's  caressingly: 

"I  feel  that  you'll  succeed,  and  that  you'll  be 
happy  with  us.  I  shan't  let  you  go  for  ever 
so  long!" 

Sydney's  eyes  shone.  She  was  as  responsive  as 
some  delicately-fashioned  musical  instrument.  Roma 
with  quick  intuition  thought:  "Why,  she's  had 
no  love  of  any  sort  in  her  life !  Poor  little  thing. 

•      •      • 

They  went  on  talking  for  nearly  an  hour.  Sydney 
was  unusually  expansive  in  the  presence  of  her  new 
friend,  who  seemed  to  sweep  aside  all  her  reserve 
and  reticence  by  the  affectionate  interest  she  dis- 
played. She  was  just  thinking  of  taking  her  de- 
parture, when  the  door  opened  and  a  man  came  into 
the  room.  Sydney  looked  up  quickly,  naturally  ex- 
pecting to  see  Moreton  Cochrane.  Bu*  it  was  not 
Moreton.  The  new-comer  was  a  tall,  well-built 
young  man  who  looked  about  eight  and  twenty.  He 
had  a  fine  bronzed  face,  cut  like  a  cameo,  blue  eyes, 
and  dark  brown  hair. 

Roma  sprang  up.  "Why,  Clive  1  I  thought  you 
meant  to  stay  in  Westmoreland  till  next  week!" 

She  held  out  her  hand,  and  Clive  took  it  and 
smiled  down  upon  her. 

"The  weather  was  appalling,  and  Lady  Darring- 
ton  had  one  of  her  Noah's  Ark  parties.  You  know 
the  kind  of  thing!  I  remembered  how  Disraeli  in 
his  youth  used  to  steal  away  in  the  night  from  coun- 
try houses  where  he  was  bored.  Well,  I  didn't  ex- 
actly do  that,  but  I  escaped  at  cock-crow  with  a  man 
who  had  to  journey  to  the  wilds  of  Scotland.  They 
thought  I'd  gone  with  him." 

Roma  seemed  suddenly  to  remember  Sydney's 
presence. 

"Clive,    this    is    Miss    Flood.      My    husband's 


88       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

cousin,"  she  added  to  Sydney,  by  way  of  explanation. 
"You'll  have  some  tea,  Clive?" 

"Yes,  but  please  let  it  be  fresh  and  strong." 

Roma  pressed  an  enamel  bell  at  her  side.  A 
servant  came  and  she  gave  the  order  for  fresh  tea 
to  be  brought.  Clive  sat  near  the  fire  and  relapsed 
into  silence. 

"Miss  Flood  has  arranged  to  return  with  us  to 
Venice,"  said  Roma. 

Clive  bestowed  a  swift  glance  upon  Sydney.  It 
seemed  to  her  that  there  was  a  resentful,  annoyed 
expression  in  his  handsome  face. 

"She  will  occupy  your  two  top  rooms,"  Roma  pro- 
ceeded, "since  you  refused  to  come  with  us  this  time. 
I'm  sure  you're  making  a  mistake.  It's  far  too  late 
in  the  season  to  go  to  Algiers." 

"You  know  I'm  pledged  to  go  with  Graham," 
said  Clive  curtly,  "and  he  likes  to  sit  out  in  the 
blazing  sun.  After  Westmoreland,  I  confess  the 
prospect  doesn't  displease  me.  Besides,  it's  never 
really  too  hot  there  till  the  end  of  June,  and  then  I 
shall  be  coming  back  to  London." 

"Moreton  would  scarcely  believe  that  you  didn't 
mean  to  come  to  Venice.  But  it's  an  ill  wind 
that  blows  nobody  good,  as  I  hope  Miss  Flood 
will  discover." 

The  tea  had  come,  and  she  gave  Clive  a  steaming 
hot  cup  of  it.  For  a  few  minutes  he  ate  and  drank 
voraciously.  Flood?  Where  had  he  heard  that 
name?  In  connection,  surely,  with  some  recent 
smart  wedding.  .  .  .  Wanley's  of  course — they  had 
been  discussing  it  down  at  the  Darringtons'.  Some 
one  had  said  young  Lady  Wanley  was  strikingly 
lovely.  But  this  girl  had  no  claim  to  beauty  at  all. 
She  looked,  indeed,  little  more  than  a  child,  with  her 
wide  hat  that  showed  a  glimpse  of  the  fair  bobbed 
hair,  and  her  straight,  short  frock.  .  .  .  Where  had 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       89 

Roma  picked  her  up?  And  why  was  she  to  accom- 
pany them  to  Venice?  She  must  be  some  relation  of 
Wanley's  wife,  for  Wanley  was  one  of  Moreton's 
wealthiest  patrons.  He  remembered  meeting  him 
in  Venice  a  few  weeks  after  the  Armistice.  A 
charming  boy.  .  .  .  They  said  he  had  been  quite 
crazy  about  his  wife,  had  fallen  in  love  with  her  the 
moment  he  saw  her.  But  this  girl  was  almost  plain. 
Plain  and  certainly  dull.  Why  did  Roma  want  to 
take  her  back  with  her?  If  she  must  take  a  girl, 
why  didn't  she  choose  a  pretty  and  charming 
one? 

Roma's  next  speech  illuminated  the  situation.  She 
put  her  hand  affectionately  upon  Sydney's,  as  if  to 
draw  her  into  the  conversation,  and  said  smiling, 
first  at  her  and  then  at  Clive  : 

"Miss  Flood  is  Moreton's  very  latest  discov- 
ery!" 

"Oh,  so  you  paint?"  said  Clive. 

"Yes,  but  I've  never  studied  seriously.  I'm  going 
to  Venice  to  work." 

The  cool,  slow  tones  of  her  voice  attracted 
him  against  his  will,  but  he  only  replied  a  trifle 
sententiously : 

"Italy  is,  par  excellence,  the  land  to  idle  in !" 

"I  don't  mean  to  idle,  though,"  she  said,  and  her 
clear  eyes  held  a  fugitive  gleam  of  amusement. 

Already  she  felt  that  she  liked  Clive.  Nearly  all 
women  did.  He  was  gay  and  debonair  as  a  general 
rule,  with  the  pouting  mouth  of  a  thoroughly  spoilt 
child  when  anything  upset  him  or  his  plans. 

"Moreton  wouldn't  let  you,  in  any  case,"  said 
Clive,  "he  works  his  proteges  and  discoveries  to 
death,  or  rather  he  sees  that  they  work  themselves 
to  death.  He  has  all  the  instincts  of  a  slave-driver, 
and  his  tongue  does  duty  for  the  whip." 

"You   mustn't   make   her   afraid   of   Moreton," 


90       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

pleaded  Roma,  with  a  smile.  "Besides,  I'm  going 
to  look  after  her  myself,  and  I  shall  see  that  she 
gets  regular  food  and  exercise." 

Clive  stirred  a  little  restlessly.  Yes,  it  was  Roma's 
doing,  as  he  had  suspected.  She  had  taken  a  liking 
to  this  odd-looking  girl,  and  perhaps  they  had 
thought,  too,  that  they  would  be  doing  Wanley  a 
good  turn,  supposing  this  Miss  Flood  were  really 
related  to  his  wife.  Roma  often  took  these  inex- 
plicable fancies  to  unlikely  people.  Bored  her  friends 
and  relations  with  them  for  a  few  months  .  .  .  and 
then  they  vanished.  But  he  had  an  idea  that  perhaps 
little  Miss  Flood  wouldn't  vanish  quite  so  quickly 
or  so  completely  as  some  of  those  former  -proteges. 
She  seemed  far  too  securely  established  in  Roma's 
favor.  Still,  of  course,  there  would  be  in  the  end  the 
inevitable  debacle.  Miss  Flood  didn't  look  as  if  she 
possessed  the  qualities  of  the  leech.  She  looked 
sensitive,  as  well  as  unawakened  and  unaware. 
Hadn't  she  any  friends  to  stop  her  from  going? 
Was  Wanley  encouraging  it? 

And  again  Roma  threw  light,  as  it  were,  upon 
the  obscure  screen. 

"Miss  Flood  is  very  serious,  you  know,  Clive. 
And  she's  making  great  sacrifices  to  come." 

Clive  opened  his  blue  eyes  very  wide. 

"I  hope  she  is  doing  nothing  of  the  kind!  You 
always  embroider  deliciously,  Roma." 

He  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

"I  am  not  embroidering  in  the  least,"  said  Roma, 
quite  unoffended  at  his  words.  She  took  up  a  sugary 
cake  and  began  to  nibble  it.  "Moreton  was  invited 
by  Lord  Wanley,  who  has  just  married  Miss  Flood's 
younger  sister,  to  go  and  look  at  her  work.  He 
came  to  curse,  and  behold  he  remained  to  bless.  He 
praised — he  even  bought — he  flicked  at  matrimonial 
schemes  till  they  fell  to  the  ground  in  ruins !" 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON       91 

The  remark  stimulated  Clive's  interest  and  curios- 
ity. He  said,  looking  at  Sydney  curiously: 

"Were  you  really  going  to  be  married?" 

"I  was — thinking  of  it."  She  wished  that  Mrs. 
Cochrane  had  not  mentioned  the  matter.  This 
frank  discussion  of  her  private  affairs  before  a  com- 
plete stranger  made  her  feel  slightly  uncomfortable. 
She  could  forget  her  reticence  with  Roma,  but  this 
man  made  her  almost  regret  her  sudden  lapse  into 
frankness. 

Clive  perceived  that  her  position  differed  ma- 
terially from  that  of  any  of  her  predecessors.  It 
gave  him  a  little  shock  to  hear  her  cool  un- 
abashed reply. 

uPoor  chap !"  he  said. 

He  was  startled  into  an  attitude  of  resentful 
interest.  What  manner  of  man  was  this  who  had 
coveted  the  affection  of  this  quiet,  cold  girl?  She 
was  not  even  pretty,  though  she  had  a  sort  of  re- 
mote charm  of  the  kind  that  often  attracts  the  un- 
usual. And,  of  course,  she  must  be  gifted.  More- 
ton  had  an  uncanny,  almost  sinister,  flair  for  dis- 
covering and  exploiting  young  genius.  And  if  he 
had  bought  one  of  her  pictures,  that  spoke  volumes 
for  the  impression  her  work  must  have  made 
upon  him. 

"Did  you  do  all  this  on  your  own?"  he  asked. 
"No  guardians  to  advise  you?" 

"I  have  my  mother." 

"May  I  ask  if  she  approves?" 

"No,  you  may  not!"  interposed  Roma.  "You're 
not  to  tease  her  with  so  many  questions.  Be  satis- 
fied that  she  has  chosen  art  in  preference  to  matri- 
mony. That  alone  has  ensured  Moreton's  good 
opinion." 

Although  she  said  the  words  gayly,  there  was  a 
touch  of  rebuke  in  her  tone.  Her  attitude  of 


92       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

strongly  protecting  Sydney,  combined  with  this 
slight  censure  of  himself,  made  Clive  secretly  furi- 
ous. He  colored  a  little  with  anger,  aware  that 
Roma  had  taken  Miss  Flood's  part  against  him. 
The  spoilt  and  indulged  child  was  uppermost 
just  then. 

"Miss  Flood  is  one  of  those  rare  people  who 
knows  exactly  what  she  wants  and  makes  a  bee-line 
for  it,"  continued  Roma,  bestowing  an  affectionate 
look  upon  Sydney.  "Of  course,  you  wouldn't  under- 
stand that,  Clive.  Your  values  and  ambitions  change 
every  year.  Witness  your  declaration  last  winter 
that  you  could  never  spend  the  spring  anywhere  but 
in  Italy  again.  Now,  it  is  all  Algeria,  and  this  sun- 
bath-maniac,  Mr.  Graham!  The  Tell — the  Desert 
— the  Arab  quarter!  I  wish  you  joy  of  them  all!" 

Clive  rose,  his  cheeks  aflame.  How  far  Roma 
was  in  earnest,  he  could  not  quite  tell,  but  at  least  his 
punishment  for  deciding  to  go  elsewhere,  had  been 
swift  and  sharp.  He  was  not  to  be  allowed  to  have 
the  chance  of  changing  his  mind.  Roma  had  quietly 
filled  his  room,  a  thing  that  had  never  happened 
before.  He  did  not  know  quite  how  far  she  had 
been  impelled  to  do  this  by  Moreton's  enthusiasm 
for  his  new  discovery,  or  whether  it  were  merely  the 
result  of  the  sudden  fancy  she  had  taken  to  Sydney 
Flood.  And  then  the  uncomfortable  fear  took  pos- 
session of  him,  that  she  might  have  been  guided  by 
some  subtler  motive  that  concerned  himself  and  his 
Algerian  plan. 

"I'm  sorry  I've  bored  you  with  my  lack  of  seri- 
ous purpose,"  he  said  petulantly;  "but  Miss  Flood 
at  least  will  profit  by  it,  so  there  will  be  some- 
thing gained." 

"But  you're  not  going,  Clive?" 

He  looked  at  his  watch.  "Yes — I'm  dining  at  the 
Club  with  the  'sun-bath-maniac,'  as  you  call  him.  We 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       93 

shall  go  to  a  play  afterwards.  I  shall  be  in  late,  so 
I'll  say  good-night."  He  held  out  his  hand  to  Roma, 
then  said  good-by  to  Miss  Flood  and  went  out  of 
the  room. 

Roma  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and  smiled. 

"Poor,  dear  Clive — -he's  just  like  a  spoilt  child  in 
these  volcanic  moods.  Well,  we  can  have  a  little 
peace,  now  he's  gone.  I'm  obliged  to  give  him  a 
lesson  every  now  and  then  for  the  good  of  his  soul. 
We  are  his  nearest  relations,  and  my  husband  has 
been  like  a  father  to  him  since  he  was  seven  years 
old,  but  even  so,  he  mustn't  take  our  indulgence  too 
much  for  granted.  Moreton  simply  can't  bear  to 
thwart  him,"  she  added. 

Sydney  felt  slightly  uncomfortable.  She  felt  as  if 
she  had  assisted  at  one  of  those  family  discussions, 
not  amounting  to  actual  quarreling,  which  make  a 
third  person  conscious  of  being  in  the  way  and  of  hav- 
ing no  right  to  be  present.  That  she  had,  however, 
been  there  and  had  acquired  this  insight  into  their 
family  life  seemed  to  confirm  and  strengthen  the 
sense  of  intimacy  which  had  so  rapidly  sprung  up 
between  herself  and  Mrs.  Cochrane.  And  Clive  had 
undoubtedly  interested  her.  She  was  sorry  that  she 
was  the  primary  cause  of  his  annoyance.  Moreton 
hadn't  wanted  her  to  occupy  his  rooms;  perhaps  he 
had  foreseen  that  Clive  would  resent  the  plan. 

It  came  into  her  mind  then  that  if  Duncan  had  in 
any  way  resembled  Clive,  she  would  not  have  found 
it  such  an  easy  task  to  dismiss  him.  He  would  have 
made  her  choice  a  far  more  difficult  and  compli- 
cated matter.  She  felt  that  Clive  would  be  capable 
of  exacting  from  the  woman  he  loved,  that  over- 
whelming, world-obliterating  love  that  had  for  her 
so  incomprehensibly  characterized  the  relations  of 
Wanley  and  Moira.  Something  that  swept  you  off 
your  feet,  carried  you  away.  .  .  .  She  had  barely 


94       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

glanced  at  this  thought  with  a  sense  almost  of  guilt, 
when  Roma  said: 

"Clive  is  delightfully  handsome,  isn't  he?  Most 
women  who  know  him,  go  through  a  stage  of  falling 
in  love  with  him.  I  always  wish  they  would  come 
to  me  first,  and  let  me  give  them  a  word  of  warn- 
ing— I  should  certainly  save  them  from  a  good  deal 
of  pain.  There  is  a  great  devotion  in  his  life,  which 
keeps  him  from  marrying.  I  don't  believe  there's  a 
woman  alive  who  can  make  him  forget  it." 

Sydney  was  silent.  She  had  felt  a  warm,  suddenly- 
aroused  interest  in  Clive,  although  obviously  he  had 
not  liked  her,  had  been,  barely  civil,  indeed,  asking 
those  brutally  frank  questions  until  Roma  had  come 
to  the  rescue  and  stopped  him.  But  he  shared  in 
the  glamor  which  just  then  surrounded  for  her  all 
that  appertained  to  Roma  Cochrane  and  her  imme- 
diate surroundings. 

"How  charming  it  must  be  for  you,  my  dear  Syd- 
ney, to  know  that  art  is  so  worth  while,  and  that 
you  only  want  to  dedicate  your  life  to  it.  It's  so 
seldom  one  finds  a  woman — especially  a  young  one — 
so  sensible." 

"You  see,  so  far  I  haven't  been  allowed  to  dedi- 
cate my  life  to  it,"  said  Sydney  thoughtfully;  "per- 
haps that's  why  I  long  to  do  so." 

And  then  the  alternative  wasn't  wildly  exciting," 
said  Roma;  "I'm  sure  that  your  Mr.  Turner  is  an 
excellent  young  man — the  kind  of  man  who  has 
never  given  his  mother  an  hour's  anxiety — but  he 
looked  quite  without  temperament — he  wouldn't 
have  been  able  to  appreciate  you  in  the  least.  But 
later  on,"  and  now  she  looked  with  a  close,  long 
gaze  into  Sydney's  face,  "you  may  have  the  won- 
derful experience  of  love.  All  women  ought  to 
have  it,  and  1  hardly  think  you  will  escape  it.  It 
will  help  you  in  your  work  too — it  will  give  it  vi- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       95 

tality    and   meaning.     Finish    your    drudgery    first 
though,  as  I'm  sure  Moreton  will  tell  you." 

Sydney  stumbled  to  her  feet. 

"I  only  hope  that  it  may  not  come  for  many  years," 
she  said,  with  an  attempted  lightness. 

"Must  you  be  going?"  said  Roma  lazily. 

"Yes — it's  getting  late.  I'm  afraid  I've  kept  you 
too  long." 

"Not  in  the  least  too  long.  We  ought  to  know 
each  other  better  if  we're  to  spend  some  months  to- 
gether. You're  such  a  restful  little  companion." 
And  again  she  bestowed  upon  her  that  penetrating 
gaze.  There  was  criticism  in  it,  but  it  was  a  kindly 
criticism.  "I'm  quite  glad  Clive  isn't  to  be  with 
us  this  spring.  I  should  have  so  little  time  for  you 
if  he  were  there.  And  I've  a  kind  of  idea  he  might 
have  disturbed  and  unsettled  you  and  made  it  diffi- 
cult for  you  to  work." 

"But  how  could  he?"  said  Sydney,  laughing  with 
frank  incredulity. 

"Oh,  it's  his  little  way.  He  has  that  effect  upon 
women." 

"I  don't  think  he  would  have  unsettled  or  dis- 
turbed me  all  the  same,"  said  Sydney  cheerfully. 
"But  I'm  afraid  he  hates  my  going  with  you." 

"You've  an  unusual  power  of  discernment.  But 
it  has  only  perhaps  prejudiced  him  against  you  for 
the  moment,  and  he  changes  so  quickly  that  to-mor- 
row he  may  be  violently  in  favor  of  the  whole  plan. 
What  he  feels  one  day  he  doesn't  feel  the  next — 
that's  all  part  of  his  wayward  charm."  Roma 
spoke  reflectively.  "However,  it  isn't  likely  that 
you'll  ever  see  much  of  him — he's  such  a  wander- 
ing, aimless  creature.  He's  Moreton's  cousin,  you 
know,  the  son  of  old  Septimus  Cochrane,  who  mar- 
ried late  in  life  and  had  this  one  child.  He  was 
left  an  orphan  at  seven  years  old,  with  just  enough 


96       THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

to  live  on,  and  Moreton  took  him.  They're  just 
like  father  and  son,  but  Moreton  has  always  in- 
dulged him  to  the  top  of  his  bent,  and  you  see  that 
when  I  try  to  introduce  a  little  discipline,  Clive  re- 
sents it  bitterly.  1  first  saw  him  on  my  wedding- 
day — he  was  just  seventeen  and  the  most  beautiful 
boy  you  ever  saw." 

As  she  related  this  brief  history  to  Sydney,  she 
was  quietly  observing  its  effect  upon  the  girl.  It 
was  commonplace  enough,  yet  she  managed  to  imbue 
it  with  something  of  romance.  And  it  quickened 
in  some  measure,  as  perhaps  Roma  intended  that  it 
should,  Sydney's  swiftly  aroused  interest  in  Clive 
Cochrane.  She  found  herself  wishing,  hoping,  to 
see  him  again.  To  listen  to  the  lazy,  half-insolent 
inflections  of  his  voice,  his  words  resentful,  petulant, 
yet  withal  attractive. 

"dive's  still  a  child  at  heart,"  proceeded  Roma; 
"he  has  no  sense  of  responsibility  at  all.  Moreton 
is  wonderfully  patient  with  him.  But  with  all  his 
faults  he's  a  dear,  and  devoted  to  both  of  us." 

She  was  evidently  proud  of  that  devotion.  In- 
deed, perhaps  it  was  the  one  stable  thing  about 
Clive.  He  was  always  jealous  of  newcomers  into 
their  little  circle;  he  was  jealous,  too,  that  any  one 
else  should  be  there  on  terms  of  intimacy.  She 
knew  that  was  why  he  had  been  scarcely  civil  to 
Sydney,  had  even  tried  to  dissuade  the  girl  from  ac- 
companying them. 

When  she  said  good-by  to  Sydney,  she  drew  her 
gently  towards  herself  and  kissed  her.  "I'm  so  glad 
— so  very  glad — -that  you've  chosen  to  come,"  she 
said. 

Sydney  left  the  house  that  evening  and  walked 
home  as  if  she  had  been  treading  on  air.  She  turned 
up  Sloane  Street  and  walked  till  she  came  to 
Knightsbridge.  There  she  would  have  taken  a  'bus, 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON       97 

but  they  passed  her  one  after  another,  full  to  over- 
flowing. And  the  fresh  cold  air  of  the  spring  night 
was  invigorating,  after  the  enervating  heat  of  Roma's 
room.  It  was  hardly  dark  yet,  and  the  street-lamps 
mingled  their  light  with  the  blueness  of  the  dusk. 
In  the  Park  the  still  leafless  trees  waved  their  boughs, 
bending  a  little  as  the  wind  passed  over  them.  The 
wonderful  traffic  of  London,  the  laden  omnibuses, 
the  motors,  the  great  camions,  with  their  brilliant 
shifting  lights,  imbued  the  scene  with  a  curiously 
picturesque  quality.  The  pavements  were  thronged 
with  people,  some  lazy  and  sauntering,  as  if  enjoy- 
ing a  rare  hour  of  idle  ease,  others  hurrying  along 
as  if  they  were  late  for  some  important  appointment. 
Sydney's  trained  eyes  saw  all  the  beautiful  effects 
of  that  massed,  colorful  darkness,  those  wandering 
shifting  lights,  the  darkly-etched  boughs  against  the 
high  blue  dusk  of  the  sky.  But  her  thoughts  were 
elsewhere.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  been  suddenly 
transported  into  a  new  world  whose  freedom  had 
been  bestowed  with  royal  generosity  upon  her.  The 
figures  of  Moreton  Cochrane,  of  his  lovely  exquisite 
wife,  of  Clive,  filled  that  new  world  with  a  warm 
human  interest.  She  felt  excited,  and  a  passionate 
sense  of  power  to  achieve  thrilled  through  her.  Of 
course  she  meant  to  work,  to  fulfill  their  high  ex- 
pectations and  demands.  But  it  was  not  Moreton 
whom  she  feared  to  disappoint — it  was  Roma,  and 
in  a  lesser  degree,  Clive. 


CHAPTER  IX 

IN  the  days  that  followed,  Lady  Flood's  anger 
crystallized  into  an  attitude  of  permanent,  al- 
most silent,  disapproval.  Sydney  did  not  again  al- 
lude to  her  departure,  knowing  that  when  the  date 
had  been  fixed  it  would  be  necessary  to  speak,  but 
not  before.  Three  times  a  day  at  meals  did  the 
mother  and  daughter  meet.  The  chilliest  of  plati- 
tudes passed  Lady  Flood's  lips.  There  were 
Moira's  letters  to  be  discussed,  and  they  were  full 
of  a  gay  gossip  from  Paris  and  from  the  various 
places  the  young  couple  stopped  at,  that  caused  Lady 
Flood  (a  considerable  beauty  of  her  own  genera- 
tion) to  think  regretfully  of  the  southern  sunshine. 
But  Sydney  was  too  deeply  preoccupied  with  her  own 
future  to  feel  anything  but  a  passing  interest  in  them. 
She  was  absorbed  in  her  own  plans,  and  in  those 
preparations  that  were  being  secretly  but  carefully 
accomplished.  She  bought  as  little  as  possible, 
aware  that  the  journey  would  make  heavy  inroads 
upon  her  fifty  pounds. 

It  was  about  a  fortnight  later  that  she  announced 
one  night  at  dinner  that  her  departure  was  fixed  for 
the  following  week. 

"I  shall  travel  with  the  Cochranes,"  she  added. 

"I'm  not  interested  in  your  plans,"  said  Lady 
Flood  stiffly. 

Her  daughter  might  flout  her,  defy  her,  but  she 
should  not  do  so  without  suffering  for  it.  These 
people  would  soon  tire  of  having  her  in  their  house, 
and  there  would  come  a  day  when  Sydney  would  re- 
turn home,  a  penitent,  prodigal  daughter.  .  .  .  Lady 

98 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON       99 

Flood  liked  to  let  her  mind  dwell  upon  that  epoch 
of  restored  discipline. 

"Remember  this,  Sydney,"  she  added  after  a 
pause,  "if  you  go,  you  go  for  good.  I  will  not  re- 
ceive you  at  home  again." 

"I  quite  understand,"  said  Sydney.  Her  eyes 
were  large  and  brilliant  and  held  a  glow  of  excite- 
ment. 

"You  have  behaved  shamefully  to  Duncan,  and 
now  you  are  behaving  shamefully  to  me !" 

"I'm  not  doing  anything  wrong,"  said  Sydney. 

"That  may  be  your  opinion.     It  isn't  mine." 

"Most  girls  if  they  have  any  talent  at  all  are  en- 
couraged to  cultivate  it." 

"Not  at  any  cost,"  retorted  Lady  Flood.  "You 
have  no  need  to  work — to  earn  your  own  living. 
That  would  alter  the  question  at  once.  As  it  is,  I 
provide  you  with  everything.  You've  had  the 
chance,  too,  of  making  an  excellent  marriage." 

"You  know  I  never  wanted  to  marry.  I  only 
thought  of  accepting  Duncan  because  I  believed  it 
would  give  me  greater  freedom — more  liberty.  I 
want  to  paint,  more  than  anything  in  the  world." 

"So  it  seems,"  observed  her  mother  dryly. 

"And  just  because  I'm  going  abroad  to  study, 
you  are  treating  me  as  if  I  were  doing  something 
disgraceful — shameful — "  said  Sydney,  indignantly. 

"You  are  disobeying  and  defying  me,"  Lady 
Flood  reminded  her.  "I  don't  care  about  those 
Cochrane  people.  They  are  rich,  but  they  are  not 
of  our  world.  I  am  sure  Wanley  never  intended 
that  you  should  become  so  violently  intimate  with 
them." 

They  faced  each  other  passionately  across  the  ta- 
ble, almost  as  enemies,  aware  that  they  had  come 
to  the  parting  of  the  ways.  And  to  a  wise  on- 
looker the  conflict  would  have  seemed  less  a  per- 


ioo     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

sonal  one,  than  the  outcome  of  a  difference  of  vi- 
sion between  two  generations  more  completely  di- 
vided in  aim  and  standard  than  perhaps  any  two 
generations  had  ever  been  before.  It  was  a  con- 
flict that  was  being  enacted  almost  universally 
throughout  the  whole  of  the  civilized  world.  Co- 
ercive measures  were  no  longer  possible.  Lady 
Flood  had  a  fleeting  regret  that  the  day  was  passed 
when  parents  could  enforce  their  will  upon  even 
grown-up  daughters  by  locking  them  in  their  rooms 
until  they  submitted. 

"I  believe  you  will  come  to  grief,"  she  said  at 
last,  sternly;  "you  have  no  knowledge  of  the  world 
nor  experience  of  life.  I  can't  understand  in  the 
least  what  those  Cochrane  people  want  with  you. 
I  have  written  to  tell  Wanley  how  disastrously 
things  have  turned  out,  and  I  believe  if  he  had  been 
at  home  now,  he  would  have  put  a  stop  to  the  whole 
thing." 

"But  I  should  have  left  home  in  any  case,"  said 
Sydney.  "If  the  Cochranes  hadn't  come,  I  suppose 
I  should  have  married  Duncan.  And  it  isn't  be- 
cause you  really  mind  my  going  that  you're  so  angry 
with  me — you  wouldn't  have  said  anything  if  I  had 
left  home  to  be  married.  Only  you  don't  like  the 
thought  of  my  doing  what  I've  wanted  to  do  ever 
since  I  left  school." 

There  was  no  passion  in  her  voice,  it  was  cold, 
impartial,  a  relentless  statement  of  fact.  But  it 
kindled  her  mother's  anger  to  flame. 

"I  really  think  you  are  mad!  You  have  never 
been  quite  normal — even  as  a  child  you  weren't 
like  other  children.  And  now  you  seem  to  take 
pleasure  in  breaking  my  heart!  You  don't  know 
what  you're  doing,  to  leave  a  comfortable  home 
where  you  have  everything  you  need.  Many  home- 
less women  would  envy  you.  Yet  you  just  fling  it 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     101 

aside  as  if  it  were  worth  nothing  at  all !  It's  ridicu- 
lous for  you  to  wish  to  earn  your  own  living.  How- 
ever, there  shall  be  no  retracing  of  your  footsteps. 
You've  chosen  your  path — you  shall  keep  to  it." 

"I  perfectly  understand  that,"  said  Sydney. 

She  had  the  ignorant  fearlessness  of  youth.  The 
unknown  had  no  terrors  for  her,  despite  her  shel- 
tered upbringing.  What  terrified  her  was  the 
thought  of  wasting  these  wonderful,  precious  days 
of  youth,  of  letting  her  talent  atrophy  in  uncon- 
genial surroundings,  of  living  the  kind  of  life  that 
satisfied  her  mother.  Shopping,  lunching  out,  din- 
ing out,  the  endless  entertainment  of  visitors,  a  play 
sometimes,  a  few  dances  in  the  winter,  a  few  more 
in  the  season.  Dances  when  she  had  fewer  part- 
ners perhaps  than  any  girl  in  the  room.  She  could 
dance  well,  but  she  was  dull  to  talk  to;  she  never 
knew  what  to  say.  Poker-patience  when  she  was 
alone  with  her  mother  in  the  evening.  Never  a 
morning  when  on  waking  she  could  tell  herself,  ul 
shall  have  no  interruptions  to-day — I  can  work  as 
long  as  I  like."  There  were  many  days,  indeed, 
when  there  was  no  time  to  work  at  all,  when  her 
fingers  ached  to  feel  pencil  or  brush  between  them, 
and  her  mind  was  full  of  visions  that  could  never 
materialize.  Any  hunger,  any  privation,  rather 
than  that!  And  it  wasn't  as  if  she  hadn't  the  gift. 
.  .  .  "Your  great  little  gift,"  "your  little  girl  is  a 
genius.  .  .  ."  All  her  life  she  thought  she  would 
hear  Moreton  Cochrane's  gruff  voice  uttering  those 
wonderful  phrases. 

And  she  wasn't  going  alone,  as  so  many  girls  had 
had  to  go.  She  was  going  with  this  wonderful,  ex- 
quisite, new  friend  who  seemed  to  care  for  her,  who 
could  thaw  her  cold  stupid  reserve  with  the  warmth 
of  her  own  temperament.  A  woman  who  compelled 


her  confidence,  who  believed  in  her,  encouraged  her, 
made  her  feel  capable  of  achieving  miracles.  .  .  . 

So  the  last  days  passed,  moving  slowly  as  if  to 
keep  her  chained  as  long  as  possible.  She  only  saw 
Roma  twice  in  the  interim,  to  learn  the  details  of 
the  journey,  the  time  and  place  of  their  meeting. 
It  seemed  like  a  dream,  when  that  chilly  morning 
in  early  April  dawned  at  last  and  found  her  after 
a  hurried  breakfast  standing  in  the  hall,  ready  to 
depart. 

Her  trunks — two  modest  ones — and  a  suitcase 
had  already  been  brought  downstairs.  They  were 
strapped  and  labeled.  She  had  the  conviction  that 
something  of  enormous,  vital  importance  had  been 
left  behind.  She  had  gone  up  at  the  last  moment 
to  give  a  final  look  around  the  studio.  It  was  in 
disorder;  the  discarded  implements  of  her  craft  lay 
about  in  confusion  on  table  and  floor.  In  the  chill 
morning  light  it  looked  bleak  and  uninviting.  Yet 
it  was  there,  between  those  four  walls,  that  her  fate 
had  been  decided.  A  little  sick  fear  for  the  first 
time  took  possession  of  her.  She  was  terribly  afraid 
of  disappointing  these  people  who  had  so  changed 
the  face  of  the  world  for  her.  But  the  rights  and 
wrongs  of  her  action  failed  to  disturb  her.  Religion 
played  a  somewhat  minor  part  in  the  household, 
being  relegated  almost  exclusively  to  Sundays  and 
to  the  more  important  festivals  of  the  Established 
Church.  It  did  not  enter  into  their  daily  lives  at 
all.  The  reason  for  her  present  action  seemed  to 
Sydney  a  perfectly  just  one.  She  was  a  little  sorry 
that  her  mother  disapproved,  but  then,  Lady  Flood 
had  never  cared  for  her  so  much  as  for  her  other 
children,  and  Sydney  had  disappointed  her  by  not 
marrying. 

She  was  back  in  the  hall,  and  Wright  had  gone 
for  a  taxi,  when  her  mother  appeared  on  the  stairs. 


103 

They  had  said  good-by  to  each  other  on  the  pre- 
vious night;  cold  kisses  had  been  exchanged. 

"So  you  are  really  going,  Sydney?"  said  Lady 
Flood. 

It  was  unusual  for  her  to  appear  at  such  an  early 
hour.  She  invariably  breakfasted  in  her  own  room. 

"Yes,  Mamma,"  said  Sydney.  "Shall  I— shall 
I  write  to  you?" 

"If  you  care  to,"  said  Lady  Flood  coldly. 

The  taxi  stood  at  the  door;  the  purr  of  its  ma- 
chinery was  audible  within  the  house.  Wright,  look- 
ing more  ancient  and  austere  than  usual,  was  help- 
ing with  the  boxes.  He  was  thinking  of  Duncan 
Turner,  and  wondering  where  the  "hitch"  had  been. 

"Good-by,  Mamma,"  said  Sydney. 

She  put  up  her  face.  She  was  a  little  shorter 
than  her  mother,  and  beside  her  she  always  man- 
aged to  look  small  and  childish. 

"Good-by."  Lady  Flood  stooped  and  kissed  her 
daughter's  forehead.  It  is  possible  that  but  for  the 
alert  presence  of  Wright  she  might  have  demon- 
strated her  displeasure  by  foregoing  that  ceremony. 
But  she  belonged  to  an  age  that  kept  up  appear- 
ances at  all  costs. 

Sydney  choked  back  a  sob;  it  wasn't  so  easy 
to  go,  as  she  had  imagined.  As  she  stumbled  out 
of  the  hall,  her  eyes  blinded  with  tears,  she  was 
conscious  that  her  exit  lacked  all  the  dignity  of 
drama.  It  was  foolish,  like  a  farce.  Wright  re- 
spectfully held  open  the  door  of  the  taxi,  but  she 
felt  somehow  that  he  was  sharing  in  the  general 
disapproval.  His  farewell  was  respectful,  too,  but 
it  was  chilly.  No  one  else  witnessed  her  departure. 
She  could  not  help  contrasting  it  with  the  going 
away  of  Moira  hardly  a  month  ago.  All  the  serv- 
ants then  had  clustered  on  the  pavement,  the  little 
crowd  of  guests  were  standing  in  the  hall,  and  be- 


io4     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

yond  the  red  carpet  and  the  awning  there  had  been 
a  great  throng  of  those  strange  beings  who  invari- 
ably assemble  outside  a  house  where  a  wedding 
party  has  gathered,  to  watch  the  departure  of  bride 
and  groom.  That  silent  yet  perceptible  disapproval 
of  Wright  made  Sydney  feel  more  than  ever  that 
she  was  going  away  in  disgrace,  as  if  bent  on  some 
shameful  purpose.  The  tears  stung  her  eyes;  the 
chilly  wind  reddened  her  nose.  She  felt  suddenly 
helpless,  like  a  child.  .  .  . 

At  Victoria  Station  there  was  the  usual  bustle 
and  confusion  that  characterizes  the  departure  of 
the  boat-train.  Taxis  laden  with  luggage  disgorged 
women  fantastically  smothered  in  fur  coats.  Syd- 
ney felt  bewildered  by  the  stir  and  motion.  She 
followed  a  porter  who  had  taken  her  luggage  away 
to  be  registered.  She  saw  no  sign  as  yet  of  the 
Cochranes,  but  their  places  in  the  Pullman  car  were 
next  to  each  other,  so  she  had  no  fear  of  not  find- 
ing them  eventually. 

She  moved  solitarily  down  the  long  gray  platform. 
Groups  of  people  were  standing  about,  bent  on  see- 
ing the  last  of  their  friends.  It  was  just  the  mo- 
ment for  the  rush  of  passengers  to  Italy,  and  many 
of  the  travelers  seemed  to  be  on  their  way  to  spend 
Easter  there.  Sydney  looked  small  and  insignifi- 
cant, she  even  felt  a  little  shabby.  She  wished  she 
had  thought  of  buying  a  small  soft  hat  such  as  so 
many  women  seemed  to  be  wearing.  Not  a  hat  with 
a  brim  in  which  you  couldn't  lean  back  comfortably. 

Her  place  was  found,  and  the  suitcase  had  been 
deposited  near  it.  It  was  still  early,  and  the  train 
did  not  leave  till  just  after  eight.  The  morning 
was  very  gloomy,  and  the  air  was  full  of  restless 
sounds  and  murmurs,  broken  by  shrill  whistles  and 
the  sudden  expulsion  of  steam  from  waiting  engines. 

Presently  she  espied  Mrs.  Cochrane  coming  in  a 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     105 

leisurely  manner  down  the  platform.  She,  too,  wore 
a  fur  coat,  but  it  hung  open,  disclosing  a  gray  trav- 
eling dress.  She  had  a  large  bunch  of  violets  pinned 
in  front  of  her  coat.  There  was  something  at  once 
simple  and  sumptuous  about  her.  Her  close-fitting 
fur  toque  was  tied  on  with  a  veil.  By  her  side  was 
Clive. 

As  she  came  nearer  to  the  Pullman,  Sydney  bent 
her  head  out  of  the  window  and  nodded  and  smiled 
to  her,  her  face  all  aglow  with  pleasure.  Mrs. 
Cochrane  smiled  back  at  her,  and  Clive  took  off  his 
hat,  giving  her  one  of  his  swift  resentful  looks,  as 
much  as  to  say:  "So  you've  come  in  spite  of  all  my 
warnings?"  Then  they  turned  to  each  other  again, 
and  resumed  their  conversation. 

Suddenly  another  familiar  figure  emerged  from 
the  throng  upon  the  platform  and  walked  hurriedly 
alongside  the  train,  gazing  rapidly  into  each  com- 
partment as  he  passed.  Sydney  colored,  half  with 
annoyance  and  half  with  a  kind  of  relief.  It  was 
Duncan  Turner.  He  must  be  looking  for  her.  He 
had  discovered  perhaps  the  date  and  hour  of  her 
departure,  and  would  not  let  her  go  without  a  single 
farewell  word.  His  face  was  slightly  reddened  by 
his  evident  has,te,  and  he  looked  very  short  and  in- 
significant beside  the  tall,  elegant  debonair  Clive. 
His  hat,  too,  had  slipped  rather  to  the  back  of  his 
head,  giving  him  a  somewhat  demoralized  appear- 
ance. In  his  hand  he  carried  a  great  bunch  of  vio- 
lets. They  were  for  her,  and  she  did  not  want  them. 
She  had  sent  him  away,  as  she  almost  believed,  for- 
ever, but  his  presence  this  morning  seemed  to  de- 
note that  he  had  not  accepted  his  dismissal  in  any 
sense  as  final.  He  did  not  take  either  her  or  her 
ambition  quite  seriously,  and  perhaps  thought  of  her 
as  a  spoilt  child,  bent  on  having  its  own  way,  but 
by  no  means  knowing  what  was  quite  good  for  it. 


106     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

Sydney  would  have  given  worlds  to  have  evaded 
that  meeting,  although  she  seemed  to  be  the  only 
person  in  the  train  that  day  who  was  quite  alone 
and  had  no  friend  to  witness  her  departure.  Above 
all,  she  did  not  wish  Clive  to  see  this  man  of  whom 
he  had  said,  "Poor  chap,"  in  that  light,  disdainful, 
contemptuous  tone.  Seeing  the  two  men  in  juxtapo- 
sition, as  it  were,  gave  her  a  curious  little  shock. 
She  remembered,  rather  inconsequently,  what  Mrs. 
Cochrane  had  told  her  about  Clive — that  the  women 
he  knew  often  passed  through  a  stage  of  being  in 
love  with  him.  Sydney  was  not  in  love  with  him, 
but  he  stirred  her  imagination  as  no  man  had  ever 
done  before.  He  was  to  her  like  a  splendid  figure 
of  romance,  full  of  charm,  of  personality.  She  had 
felt  disappointed  because  obviously  he  hadn't  liked 
her,  and  still  resented  her  going  abroad  with  the 
Cochranes. 

Now  Duncan  had  seen  her  and  was  coming 
straight  towards  her.  Roma  recognized  him,  and  as 
he  passed  she  bowed  to  him,  and  the  two  men  lifted 
their  hats.  Sydney  rose  to  her  feet  'as  Duncan 
came  into  the  car.  The  bad  moment  must  be  lived 
through,  and  in  her  heart  there  now  stirred  a  faint 
gratitude  because  he  had  cared  enough  about  her 
to  come — the  only  person  in  the  world  who  had 
taken  the  trouble  to  do  so  on  her  account. 

She  felt,  rather  than  saw,  that  Clive  was  watching 
the  little  meeting  from  the  platform. 

"I  came  to  see  you  off  and  to  bring  you  these." 
Duncan  laid  the  violets  on  a  little  table  in  front 
of  Sydney's  armchair.  "Somehow  I  imagined  you 
wouldn't  have  much  of  a  send-off." 

The  words  made  her  relent  a  little.  So  he  hadn't 
liked  to  think  of  her  starting  off  alone,  under  the 
chilling  ban  of  parental  disapproval.  Perhaps,  too, 
he  had  wished  to  assure  her  by  his  presence  of  a 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     107 

tacit  and  unimpaired  fidelity,  that  had  suffered  no 
change  from  those  recent  happenings. 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you  to  come  and  to  bring 
me  those  lovely  violets."  She  sniffed  at  them — 
their  fragrance  was  delicious. 

She  hoped  that  she  did  not  look  too  forlorn  and 
miserable.  The  morning  air  was  cold,  a  northeast 
wind  was  blowing  disagreeably.  She  had  the  un- 
pleasant conviction  that  her  nose  was  red  from  con- 
tact with  it,  and  that  her  eyes  must  show  traces  of 
that  recent  weeping. 

"And,  of  course,  I  wanted  to  wish  you  the  best 
of  luck  in  your  new  venture !" 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  said  Sydney. 

"And  Lady  Flood — is  she  at  all  reconciled  to 
the  idea?" 

"Not  in  the  least.     I'm  the  prodigal  daughter." 

Duncan  laughed  rather  mirthlessly. 

"May  I  say,  I  hope  there  may  be  no  husks  in  this 
modern  instance  of  the  parable?"  he  said. 

"There  may  be  husks — there'll  never  be  a  fatted 
calf!" 

She  had  quite  forgiven  him  now  for  coming.  His 
kind  eyes  always  belied  the  dry  ironical  disapproval 
suggested  by  his  words.  Of  course,  he  thought  her 
a  fool — rthey  all  did — and  just  'before  a  journey 
every  one  felt  a  little  depressed.  She  would  be 
quite  cheerful  directly  the  train  had  started  and 
they  were  well  on  their  way. 

She  knew  that  he  loved  her  still,  in  spite  of  every- 
thing. Perhaps  he  felt  a  passionate  regret  at  her 
departure.  But  he  gave  no  sign  of  any  excessive 
emotion,  and  only  seemed  preoccupied  with  her  own 
welfare  and  comfort.  His  thoughts  were  for  her 
rather  than  for  himself,  and  she  was  touched  by 
it.  But  she  could  never  have  loved  him.  And  as 
she  looked  at  Roma  and  Clive  standing  on  the 


io8     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

platform  outside,  she  felt  almost  that  she  could  have 
loved  a  man  like  Clive  if  he  had  wanted  her  love. 
She  could  picture  any  woman  waiting,  tremulous 
and  a-thrill,  for  the  coming  of  such  an  one  as 
that.  .  .  . 

"But  I  take  it  you  are  still  perfectly  satisfied?" 
Duncan's  voice  broke  across  her  thoughts,  causing 
her  to  turn  towards  him  with  an  alarmed,  almost 
guilty,  expression  on  her  face.  "If  not,  let  me  sug- 
gest that  it  isn't  yet  too  late  to  retrace  your  foot- 
steps. I'll  come  back  to  the  house  with  you,  and 
see  you  through  the  slight  awkwardness  of  confront- 
ing an  injured  Lady  Flood !" 

He  meant  what  he  said,  and  as  her  imagination 
dwelt  upon  the  possibility  of  such  an  anti-climax,  it 
possessed  something  not  altogether  unattractive. 
But  she  roused  herself  quickly  and  shook  her 
head. 

"I  wouldn't  go  back  for  the  world !  Oh,  you  must 
blame  me  if  you  like — every  one  will  blame  me,  you 
know ! — but  I've  made  my  choice  quite  deliberately, 
and  I'm  not  going  back  on  it.  I  want  to  paint — 
I  want  to  succeed!  I  want  to  devote  myself  to 
it.  .  .  ." 

"And  you're  ready  to  pay?"  said  Duncan,  a  little 
wistfully. 

"I'm  paying  now.  Can't  you  see?"  Her  lips 
trembled. 

"But  you'll  have  to  pay  much  more  than  that,  you 
know,"  he  reminded  her.  "It's  awful  to  think  of 
you  even  for  a  day  without  money  in  a  foreign  coun- 
try. Do  you  speak  a  word  of  Italian?" 

"Not  a  word.  .  .  .  But  it's  no  use  trying  to  ter- 
rify me,  Duncan.  Of  course,  one  feels  nervous,  just 
at  first,  and  starting  off  so  early  without  much  to 
eat.  But  I  shall  get  back  my  courage  soon,"  she 
assured  him,  with  shining  eyes. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     109 

"Well,  you  might  write  to  me  and  tell  me  how 
you  get  on,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  really  mean  it?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  I  really  mean  it,"  said  Duncan;  "I've  an 
idea  I  shall  look  forward  rather  too  much  to  those 
letters." 

She  said  suddenly: 

"Don't  think  of  me.     I'm  not  worth  it.  .  .  ." 

Duncan  regarded  her  gravely.  "You're  worth 
a  good  deal  to  me,  Sydney;  don't  ever  forget  that 
or  try  to  persuade  yourself  that  you're  not." 

Mrs.  Cochrane  moved  towards  the  entrance  and 
then  came  into  the  car,  followed  by  Clive. 

"We  shall  be  off  now  in  about  two  minutes,"  she 
announced  in  her  high  sweet  voice;  "I've  just  seen 
Moreton  tearing  along  the  platform — he  literally 
does  catch  his  trains,  and  I  hope  this  one  won't 
elude  him." 

"Then  I  must  go,"  said  Duncan.  He  took  Syd- 
ney's hand  and  gave  her  a  last,  swift,  penetrating 
look.  Her  face  was  set  and  a  little  stern,  as  if 
she  had  closed  her  lips  upon  some  high  resolve. 
He  shook  hands  with  Mrs.  Cochrane  and  left  the 
train.  Nor  did  he  stand  near  the  window  when 
he  reached  the  platform,  but  hurried  away  and  was 
soon  lost  to  sight. 

He  wondered  who  Clive  was.  A  friend  of  the 
Cochranes,  he  imagined,  but  he  sincerely  hoped  he 
was  not  going  to  travel  with  them.  A  good- 
looking  chap  in  his  way,  but  insolent  and  arrogant. 
.  .  .  He  passed  Moreton  racing  towards  the  Pull- 
man car. 

Clive  descended  slowly  from  the  train.  His  last 
words  to  Roma  were  whispered  ones.  He  passed 
out  just  as  Moreton  made  an  awkward,  bustling  en- 
trance, catching  his  foot  in  something  and  almost 
falling  to  the  floor  in  his  anxious  haste. 


no     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

Mrs.  Cochrane  hardly  seemed  to  notice  him.  She 
went  to  the  window  and  began  to  talk  to  Clive  in 
a  soft  undertone.  Moreton  arranged  the  bags  and 
suitcases  with  the  aid  of  a  porter. 

As  the  train  moved  away,  Sydney  saw  Clive  stand- 
ing there,  smiling.  But  there  was  no  sign  of  Dun- 
can. Suddenly  there  came  back  to  her  mind  some 
words  of  Lady  Flood's,  uttered  when  they  were  play- 
ing poker-patience  on  the  night  of  Moira's  wed- 
ding: "/  can't  think  what  induced  you  to  throw  away 
that  heart.  .  .  ."  The  memory  brought  a  little 
flush  to  her  face.  She  raised  her  eyes  and  saw  that 
Roma  was  looking  at  her. 

"So  Mr.  Turner  won't  accept  his  conge?"  she  said 
lazily. 

"Oh,  yes;  he  only  came  to  see  me  off." 

"I'm  afraid  you  haven't  quite  convinced  him,  all 
the  same,"  said  Roma,  smiling. 

"He  was  afraid  I  should  feel  lonely  with  no  one 
to  come  and  see  me  at  the  station,"  Sydney  explained, 
lamely.  She  had  an  ardent  wish  to  defend  Duncan. 
After  all,  he  counted  for  something.  He  was  the 
only  man  who  had  ever  loved  her  and  wished  to 
marry  her. 

"He  would  make  an  excellent  husband — he  has 
all  the  qualities,"  said  Mrs.  Cochrane.  "Still,  you're 
quite  right  not  to  think  of  marriage,  and  I  admire 
you  very  much  for  not  tying  yourself  down  to  a 
long  engagement,  it  would  only  have  complicated 
everything."  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair  and 
turned  over  the  leaves  of  an  illustrated  paper.  Clive 
had  flung  a  bundle  of  magazines  and  picture-papers 
into  the  train  on  arrival. 

Suddenly  Moreton  bent  over  and  said  to  his  wife: 

"What's  the  matter  with  Clive?  Why's  he  in 
such  a  temper?" 

Mrs.  Cochrane  looked  up  coolly. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     in 

"He's  annoyed  because  he  can't  have  his  rooms 
in  Venice,  and  Mr.  Graham  has  given  up  going  to 
Algiers.  So  Master  Clive  has  fallen  somewhat 
heavily  between  two  stools !" 

"But,  Roma!  When  did  you  know  this?  You 
ought  to  have  told  me!  You  know  I  never  pre- 
vent Clive  from  coming  when  he  wants  to.  It's 
his  home.  .  .  ."  Moreton's  face  was  working  with 
excitement  and  looked  incredibly  wrinkled. 

"It  happened  not  to  be  convenient  to  me  to  re- 
ceive him,"  replied  Mrs.  Cochrane,  with  a  shade 
of  annoyance  in  her  tone.  "I  have  tried  to  make 
him  look  at  the  whole  thing  reasonably,  but  you 
know  how  utterly  unreasonable  Clive  is.  It's  your 
fault — you've  had  the  training  of  him,  and  you've 
spoilt  him  all  his  life." 

"But  you  assured  me  that  he  didn't  want  to  come 
now!"  began  Moreton  excitedly. 

"No  more  he  did — last  week.  But  he's  changed 
again — he's  always  changing."  She  gave  a  slight 
frown  as  if  to  warn  Moreton  not  to  discuss  the  mat- 
ter further  before  Sydney. 

"But,  my  dear  Roma!" 

"Darling  Moreton,  don't  worry  me,  please,  about 
Clive !  Even  I  enjoy  a  little  holiday  from  him  now 
and  then." 

She  returned  to  the  picture  papers,  and  became 
seemingly  absorbed  in  them.  But  the  conversation 
diminished  in  some  sense  Sydney's  pleasure  in  the 
journey.  She  felt  certain  that  Mrs.  Cochrane  had 
so  eagerly  invited  her  to  go  with  them  to  Venice  on 
purpose  to  keep  Clive  away  if  only  for  a  few  weeks. 
Perhaps  she  had  some  private  reason  for  treating 
him  in  this  fashion.  Once  she  had  said  that  "He 
took  their  indulgence  too  much  for  granted."  Was 
it  to  punish  him  that  she  had  entreated  Sydney  to 
go  with  them,  so  that  his  rooms  should  not  be  avail- 


ii2     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

able  in  case  he  changed  his  mind?  Clive  had  evi- 
dently blamed  Sydney;  he  had  scarcely  spoken  to 
her  to-day,  had  hardly  noticed  her.  Yet  once  or 
twice  she  had  thought  his  blue  eyes  had  glanced  re- 
sentfully in  her  direction. 

Suddenly  Mrs.  Cochrane  flung  down  the  paper  she 
was  reading  and  said: 

"I  hate  spoilt  children!  Clive  is  nothing  but  a 
spoilt  child — disturbing  us  in  this  way  just  when  we 
were  leaving." 

Moreton  held  his  peace.  He  was  devoted  to 
Clive,  and  was  far  more  patient  and  indulgent  with 
him  than  Roma.  His  attitude  towards  the  young 
man  was  perfectly  consistent  and  never  varied;  it 
was  that  of  a  father  towards  a  greatly  beloved  son. 
Yet  Moreton  had  never  shown  Clive  a  father's 
severity,  and  perhaps  it  was  true  that  he  had  spoilt 
him.  He  could  remember  the  boy's  pitiable  grief 
when  he  announced  his  engagement  to  him  about 
eleven  years  ago.  "I  shall  lose  you  now.  She'll 
hate  me  and  come  between  us.  I  shan't  be  allowed 
to  live  with  you.  It'll  be  worse  than  having  a  step- 
mother!" He  recalled  those  broken  phrases,  ut- 
tered between  sobs.  But  Roma  had  not  fulfilled 
those  gloomy  prophecies.  On  the  contrary,  she  had 
always  liked  Clive,  and  very  soon  he  had  begun  to 
display  a  boy's  doglike  devotion  to  her.  She  man- 
aged him  perfectly,  for  he  was  afraid  in  those  days 
of  losing  her  good  opinion.  The  boyish  devotion 
had  long  been  a  phase  of  the  past,  but  there  was 
still  a  great  friendship  between  the  two.  It  was 
only  rarely  that  Roma  asserted  her  authority  as 
Moreton's  wife  to  refuse  Clive  anything.  Her  at- 
titude often  puzzled  Moreton.  Sometimes  she 
made  him  almost  jealous  by  the  frank  and  friendly 
intimacy  she  displayed  to  Clive;  sometimes  she  an- 
noyed him  by  treating  his  cousin  in  a  cavalier  fashion 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     113 

as  if  he  were  of  no  importance  and  had  no  right 
to  be  with  them  always.  And  Moreton  knew  that 
Clive  suffered  under  such  capricious  treatment.  Es- 
pecially he  suffered  from  the  process  of  swift  if 
tacit  retaliation  that  was  certain  to  follow  any  lapse 
of  consideration  on  his  part.  Roma  was  fickle  in 
her  friendships,  as  Moreton  knew;  she  quickly  tired 
of  people  and  was  capable  of  shutting  the  door  de- 
terminedly upon  them.  But  she  was  fond  of  Clive, 
and  she  had  a  good  influence  over  him,  restraining 
him  from  a  tendency  to  extravagance,  and  giving 
him  sound  advice  in  his  many  love-affairs. 

Moreton  felt  certain  that  Sydney's  presence  with 
them  now  was  intended  as  a  kind  of  retribution  for 
some  minor  offense  of  Clive's.  And  the  "boy,"  as 
he  always  called  him  in  his  thoughts,  had  resented 
it  bitterly.  But  Moreton's  devotion  to  his  wife  re- 
strained him  from  any  further  pleading  of  the 
"boy's"  cause.  Perhaps  it  would  be  good  for  Clive 
to  spend  a  few  months  apart  from  them.  He  would 
only  idle  in  Venice.  He  ought  to  marry.  .  .  . 

And  at  this  point  of  his  meditations  Moreton's 
eye  fell  upon  Sydney  Flood.  Why  shouldn't  he 
marry  that  little  girl?  A  charming  gifted  creature, 
with  a  little  money  and  good  connections.  It  would 
be  an  admirable  solution.  They  needn't  be  in  any 
hurry — perhaps  in  about  two  years'  time,  when  she 
had  thoroughly  mastered  the  technique  of  her  art. 
Clive  would  be  thirty  then — a  good  age  for  a  man 
to  marry.  He  ought  to  have  a  home  of  his  own. 

The  train  sped  swiftly  on  through  the  beautiful 
Kentish  fields,  passing  woods  where  primroses  lay 
in  pale  patches  on  the  banks,  and  where  under  trees 
that  were  scantily  veiled  in  emerald  mists  a  glimmer 
of  gold  made  itself  visible  where  the  first  daffodils 
lifted  their  green  spears  and  yellow  helmets  to  greet 
the  spring.  Here  and  there  a  wild  cherry  tree  stood 


n4     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

out  like  a  forest-bride,  smothered  in  the  snow  of 
her  blossom.  England  was  awakening  out  of  her 
winter  sleep,  a  <slow,  tardy,  almost  reluctant,  but 
very  exquisite,  awakening.  In  the  South  they  would 
find  summ&r  sunshine,  a  riot  of  roses.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  night  was  warm  for  April  and  very  wind- 
less. At  Padua  the  little  party  left  the  train, 
dined,  and  then  started  in  a  motor  for  Fusina,  whence 
they  were  to  travel  to  Venice  in  the  Cochranes' 
motor-boat.  This  last  part  of  the  journey — a  swift 
voyaging  upon  a  dim  mysterious  sea — was  perhaps 
the  most  beautiful  of  all. 

On  their  way  to  Fusina  they  traversed  wide 
plains,  crossed  luminous  rivers,  and  passed  through 
innumerable  villages  illuminated  with  electric  light. 
Sometimes  they  saw  in  the  distance  glimpses  of 
lonely  hills  crowned  with  great  pilgrimage  churches. 
Soon  they  came  in  sight  of  the  lagoon,  lying  broad 
and  pale  under  the  stars.  Far  off  through  the  night, 
Venice  with  her  wonderful  towers  sprang  mysteri- 
ously, as  it  seemed,  out  of  the  very  water.  To  Syd- 
ney she  was  like  one  of  those  legendary  cities  sub- 
merged suddenly  by  the  sea  and  then  salvaged  and 
brought  up  to  the  surface  again,  floating  upon  the 
water,  complete  and  triumphant,  eternally  beauti- 
ful. .  .  . 

The  long  line  of  glittering  lights  seemed  to  be  in 
friendly  converse  with  the  stars  that  hung  so  low 
in  the  skies  above  her. 

During  that  voyage  across  the  lagoon  Sydney  sat 
very  still  by  Roma's  side.  She  could  see  the  long, 
thin  black  line  that  joined  Venice  to  the  mainland, 
lying  like  a  black  shadow  upon  the  water.  Across 
it  a  train,  its  windows  shining  like  flame-colored 
squares,  traveled  rapidly. 

Roma  was  sleepy;  she  had  said  little  since  they 
"5 


n6     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

had  left  Padua.  Now  she  suddenly  roused  her- 
self to  give  an  order  to  the  men  in  rapid  Italian. 
Moreton  turned  to  her  expostulating: 

"But,  my  dear — it's  simply  miles  out  of  our  way! 
We  want  to  get  home  and  to  bed  as  soon  as  pos- 
sible." 

Roma  smiled  indolently.  "Dear  Moreton — I 
simply  can't  go  in  so  soon  on  such  a  heavenly  night. 
And  it  won't  take  half  an  hour  longer." 

By  this  Sydney  understood  that  they  were  to  pro- 
long the  voyage.  The  thought  pleased  her.  This 
rapid  rushing  through  the  night  had  a  stimulating, 
exciting  effect  upon  her  imagination. 

Their  way  was  indicated  by  twin  rows  of  black 
posts  rising  in  velvet  darkness  from  the  water,  with 
guiding  lights  showing  at  intervals.  Presently  they 
passed  a  taller  post  standing  high  and  solitary  and 
apart.  A  tiny  structure  surmounted  it  with  over- 
hanging eaves.  Before  it  a  blue  lamp  burned  flick- 
eringly,  dimly  revealing  the  statue  of  a  Mother  and 
Child  within.  Sydney  pointed  it  out  to  Roma  and 
asked  what  it  was.  Mrs.  Cochrane,  who  had  re- 
verted to  her  former  somnolent  state,  opened  her 
eyes  and  said: 

"Oh,  that's  a  shrine — there's  a  figure  of  the  Ma- 
donna in  it.  The  fisher-people  put  lights  and  flow- 
ers before  it,  and  go  there  to  pray.  They're  awfully 
superstitious  here,  you  know."  She  closed  her  eyes 
again. 

The  little  shrine  impressed  Sydney  more  perhaps 
than  she  realized  at  the  time.  In  its  loneliness  the 
appeal  it  made  seemed  to  her  almost  pathetic.  She 
had  never  lived  in  a  Catholic  country,  and  knew 
little  or  nothing  of  the  devotion  to  the  Mother  of 
God  which  is  the  natural  outcome  of  a  passionate 
hereditary  faith  in  those  stupendous  words,  repeated 
every  day  at  Holy  Mass:  And  the  Word  was  made 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     117 

Flesh  and  dwelt  among  us.  .  .  .  She  turned  her 
head  and  looked  back,  and  saw  the  little  blue  light 
shining  like  a  beacon  across  the  darkness.  And 
she  had  a  fantastic  belief  that  it  had  in  a  sense  pro- 
tected and  sanctified  her  new  beginning — this  little 
lonely  shrine  set  in  the  midst  of  the  waters,  with 
the  Mother  and  Child  keeping  eternal  watch.  It 
gave  her  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  perhaps,  a 
wish  to  pray. 

If  Roma  had  not  had  this  whim  to  prolong  their 
little  voyage,  she  felt  that  she  might  never  have 
seen  that  shrine. 

Presently  Mrs.  Cochrane  gave  another  order,  and 
the  motor-boat  turned  once  more  towards  Venice. 
Soon  they  neared  the  city,  with  her  lights,  her  soar- 
ing towers,  her  sleeping  darkened  palaces,  her 
islands  lying  apart  and  crowned  always  with  tower 
or  dome.  They  passed  by  the  Island  of  San  Giorgio, 
skirting  the  canal  of  the  Giudecca  with  its  great 
domed  church,  and  entered  the  Grand  Canal  with 
its  marvelous  palaces — the  most  splendid  perhaps 
that  exist  in  the  whole  world. 

On  the  golden  ball  at  the  point  of  the  Dogana 
the  figure  of  Fortune  holding  out  its  cloak  for  a 
vane  moved  in  response  to  the  almost  imperceptible 
breeze.  Beyond  it  the  silvery  Dome  of  Santa  Maria 
della  Salute  rose  massive  and  solemn.  On  the  other 
side  the  hotels  showed  their  garish  lights,  and  lit- 
tle groups  of  people  still  lingered  on  the  terraces 
that  went  down  sheer  to  the  water's  edge.  Some- 
where in  the  distance  the  strains  of  a  serenade 
drifted  across  the  water  with  a  kind  of  subdued  and 
persistent  melancholy. 

There  was  very  little  traffic  on  the  Grand  Canal 
at  that  hour.  But  sometimes  a  gondola  emerged 
from  a  little  no,  crossed  the  broad  stream  and 
vanished  up  one  of  those  narrow  water-ways,  its 


sharp-pointed  prow  accomplishing  the  difficult  curve 
with  a  strange  unerring  precision.  The  long  warn- 
ing cry  of  the  gondolier  echoed  through  the  night, 
smiting  across  the  silence  with  an  almost  sinister 
effect. 

They  came  in  sight  of  a  bridge  that  glimmered 
palely.  Moreton,  as  if  stimulated  by  an  obscure 
sense  of  duty,  murmured  sleepily  to  Sydney:  "The 
Rialto — Merchant  of  Venice,  you  know,"  and  then 
relapsed  into  silence. 

Roma  had  not  spoken  since  they  passed  the 
shrine,  except  to  give  the  order  to  return.  She 
leaned  back  with  an  indolent,  contented  look  upon 
her  face,  like  some  one  enjoying  the  effects  of  a 
delicious  drug. 

The  silver  lights  and  ebony  shadows  mingled  and 
moved  together  as  if  floating  upon  the  broad  breast 
of  the  water.  Venice  at  night  seemed  to  Sydney 
to  be  a  city  of  ceaseless  and  secret  tragedy. 

The  motor-boat  turned  up  a  rio,  passed  under  a 
narrow  stone  bridge,  and  stopped  before  a  flight  of 
steps  washed  by  the  water. 

"This  is  our  house,"  said  Roma;  "we  never  come 
through  the  garden  at  night  or  with  luggage." 

Moreton  was  the  first  to  land  on  the  wet  and 
slippery  steps;  he  held  out  his  hand  to  Roma,  and 
then  to  Sydney.  The  door  above  was  meanwhile 
opened,  and  the  strong  electric  light  glanced  down 
sharply  upon  the  little  group  of  people. 

Sydney  followed  Roma  into  the  house  and  up  a 
wide  marble  staircase.  They  found  themselves  in 
a  noble  hall  with  painted  ceiling  and  porphyry  pil- 
lars. Some  high  antique  chairs  with  carved  backs, 
and  a  few  ormolu  and  marble  console-tables  ar- 
ranged around  the  walls  formed  almost  the  only 
furniture.  It  was  brilliantly  lit  with  electric  light. 

Some  servants  stood  there,  bowing  and  uttering 


119 

words  of  welcome.  Roma  smiled  at  them,  answer- 
ing them  in  rapid,  perfect  Italian.  They  passed 
through  a  splendid  suite  of  rooms  until  they  reached 
one  where  they  found  supper  prepared  for  them. 
Sydney  took  her  seat  at  the  table,  feeling  miserably 
tired.  Her  head  whirled  from  those  long  hours 
spent  in  the  train,  as  well  as  from  the  rapid,  almost 
tumultuous,  motion  of  the  motor-boat.  She  longed 
to  go  to  bed,  but  she  did  not  like  to  suggest  it. 
Roma,  who  had  seemed  almost  somnolent  during  the 
journey  from  Padua,  was  now  wide-awake,  and  de- 
clared that  she  was  very  hungry.  Moreton  insisted 
that  they  should  both  drink  some  champagne.  Even 
when  the  meal  had  come  to  an  end,  no  one  seemed 
in  a  hurry  to  move.  Roma  sat  there,  smoking  a 
cigarette,  listening  to  Moreton.  Noticing  Sydney's 
silence  at  last  she  said  to  her: 

"You  must  be  tired.  I  dare  say  you'd  like  to  go 
to  your  room.  My  maid,  Ermelinda,  shall  take  you 
up  there."  She  pressed  a  bell  that  was  fixed  to 
the  table,  and  gave  the  order. 

"Good-night,"  she  said,  smiling  at  Sydney;  "mind 
you  don't  get  up  too  early.  We  have  luncheon  here 
at  half-past  twelve,  and  you're  not  likely  to  find 
any  one  visible  before  then." 

The  Italian  maid  guided  Sydney  up  a  couple  of 
flights  of  steep  stairs  of  uncarpeted  marble,  and  into 
a  room  at  the  top  of  the  house  that  looked  over  the 
little  garden  to  the  waters  of  the  Grand  Canal.  The 
room  was  large  and  spacious  and  had  two  tall  nar- 
row windows  with  a  little  balcony  outside.  Traces 
of  Clive  were  visible  in  a  few  English  sporting- 
prints  that  hung  on  the  walls  and  looked  singularly 
out  of  place  when  combined  with  a  delightful  painted 
ceiling  whereon  Phaeton  was  to  be  seen  driving  the 
chariot  of  the  sun  upon  rifts  of  golden  cloud.  Some 
shelves  were  filled  with  English  and  French  novels. 


120     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

The  painted  wooden  bedstead  had  a  canopy  of  faded 
crimson  damask  above  it,  and  what  furniture  there 
was,  was  rich  and  splendid. 

The  maid  opened  a  door  at  the  other  side  of  the 
room  and  switched  on  the  light.  "This  is  the 
salotto/'  she  announced,  "the  salotto  of  the 
Signorino." 

Sydney  went  to  the  door  and  looked  in.  The 
salotto  was  larger  than  the  bedroom,  and  was  a  fine 
spacious  apartment  with  painted  ceiling  and  carven 
doors,  and  gilt  cornices.  One  or  two  English  arm- 
chairs and  a  big  Chesterfield  provided  a  note  of 
homely  modern  comfort  in  the  midst  of  the  faded 
Venetian  magnificence.  A  large  scrivania  with  books 
and  pens  and  ink  upon  it  stood  in  the  window.  And 
here,  too,  there  were  evidences  of  dive's  occupa- 
tion. Books,  a  pipe,  ash-trays — the  little  trivial 
possessions  of  a  man  who  has  gone  away,  confi- 
dently expecting  to  return.  They  made  Sydney  feel 
like  an  interloper.  He  must  hate  the  thought  of 
her  being  here.  She  could  almost  see  his  blue  re- 
sentful eyes  fixed  upon  her. 

She  switched  off  the  light  and,  closing  the  door 
after  her,  returned  to  her  bedroom.  The  maid  was 
standing  there,  and  pointing  to  the  trunks  asked  her 
a  question  in  Italian.  Sydney  did  not  understand 
and  shook  her  head,  with  a  smile.  The  woman  re- 
peated the  question  in  broken  French.  Could  she 
help  mademoiselle  to  unpack?  Was  there  anything 
she  could  do  for  her? 

"No,  thank  you,"  said  Sydney;  "I'm  not  going 
to  unpack  to-night.  I  shall  find  everything  1  want 
in  that  suitcase.  And  I  don't  want  any  help."  She 
smiled  at  Ermelinda. 

The  maid  moved  towards  the  door. 

"Buona  sera,  sianorina.  Buon  riposo"  She 
went  out  of  the  room. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     121 

Sydney  undressed  quickly.  She  had  learned  that 
art  in  the  hospital  where  the  hours  of  sleep  had 
been  too  few  and  too  precious  to  be  wasted.  She 
brushed  back  her  short  hair,  and  standing  there  in 
her  white  cambric  nightdress  with  its  blue  ribbons, 
she  looked  very  young  and  childish  indeed.  Before 
going  to  bed  she  went  to  the  window  and  found 
that  it  was  closed,  and  that  an  outside  shutter  of 
solid  wood  was  fastened  across  it.  After  strug- 
gling a  little,  she  succeeded  in  opening  them  both, 
and  she  looked  across  the  quiet,  dark  little  garden 
lying  in  shadow  below  her  to  the  broad  black  wa- 
ters of  the  Canal,  broken  by  the  reflected  lights  from 
the  opposite  houses.  It  was  late,  and  the  busy  traf- 
fic had  almost  ceased.  She  saw  only  a  belated  gon- 
dola going  past,  a  black,  cumbrous,  funereal  mass 
gliding,  as  it  seemed,  on  the  very  surface  of  the 
water,  with  its  solitary  upstanding  pilot  silhouetted 
against  the  wall  of  a  palace  on  the  other  side.  She 
could  not  help  admiring  the  man's  graceful  poise, 
his  skilled  practiced  movements.  Now  it,  too,  had 
passed  out  of  sight,  and  the  cold  deep  waters  were 
undisturbed. 

Back  to  her  mind  there  came  suddenly,  irrel- 
evantly, the  remembrance  of  the  little  lonely  shrine 
of  the  Madonna,  out  there  in  the  heart  of  the  la- 
goon, with  the  flickering  blue  lamp  burning  before 
it  all  through  the  night.  That  lamp  seemed  to  cast 
its  trembling  reflection  across  her  thoughts,  invest- 
ing them  with  an  unaccustomed  illumination,  even 
as  it  had  cast  its  glow  into  the  dark  and  silent  wa- 
ters flowing  beneath  it.  And  in  that  hour  of  curi- 
ously stimulated  mental  activity,  it  seemed  to  Syd- 
ney that  it  was  a  beacon  light,  placed  there  in 
some  strange  and  inexplicable  way  to  guide  herself 
and  other  lonely  pilgrims  who  were  still  ignorant  of 
their  ultimate  bourne.  People  put  flowers  and 


THE  LIGHT: ON  THE  LAGOON 

lights  there,  and  prayed  to  the  Mother  of  God, 
perhaps  imploring  her  suffrages  for  dear  ones  ex- 
posed to  perils  on  the  deep  seas  that  lay  beyond 
Venice. 

To  this  girl,  untrained  and  untaught,  the  little 
shrine  was  not  only  a  new  and  unaccustomed  thing, 
but,  greeting  her  as  it  had  done  on  the  very  threshold 
of  that  new  adventure,  it  seemed  to  hold  a  definite 
spiritual  message  for  herself.  Its  presence,  so  sud- 
denly perceived,  had  been  mysterious  and  arresting; 
it  had  thrilled  her  and  stirred  her  mind  to  a  fresh 
activity.  The  Mother  of  God  keeping  watch  over 
the  lonely  lagoon,  holding  the  Child  in  her  arms 
as  if  mutely  entreating  that  He  should  be  remem- 
bered by  those  who  passed  by !  ... 

Sydney  knelt  down  by  the  window  and  prayed. 
It  was  a  formless  prayer,  yet  she  seemed  to  be  sup- 
plicating for  help  and  guidance  in  her  new  life. 
Would  not  that  caressing  night-wind  waft  the  words 
of  her  little  prayer,  confused  and  imperfect  as  it 
was,  across  the  wide  waters  and  carry  them  to  the 
little  shrine  that  stood  so  solitary  in  the  midst  of 
the  lagoon? 

Then  she  crept  into  bed  and  fell  asleep.  She 
slept  until  long  after  the  white  spring  dawn  had 
broken  over  Venice  and  touched  the  snows  upon  the 
distant  Alps  to  rose-color.  Even  the  awakening 
of  traffic,  the  hoot  of  steamer,  the  cry  of  gondolier, 
the  noisy  rushing  of  motor-boat  upon  the  Grand 
Canal,  failed  to  disturb  her,  as  she  lay  there,  sleep- 
ing tranquilly  as  a  child.  But  into  her  dreams  there 
flashed  always  the  confused  remembrance  of  a  blue 
light  flickering  high  above  the  dark  ^ilent  waters, 
illuminating  a  wooden  structure  with^  overhanging 
eaves  in  whose  shadows  there  glimmered  palely  the 
figure  of  the  Madonna,  holding  the  Divine  Child 
in  her  arms. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  FEW  days  after  her  arrival  in  Venice,  Sydney's 
work  began.     Moreton  Cochrane  arranged  that 
she  should  attend  a  studio  three  days  a  week,  where 
she  was  to  work  under  an  eminent  artist,  Pinelli. 

Pinelli  was  an  old  friend  of  Moreton  Cochrane' s. 
He  had  known  him  before  his  marriage,  had  often 
helped  him  in  his  quest  for  pictures  and  precious 
objects  destined  to  enrich  the  collections  of  British 
and  American  millionaires.  This  quest  had  been 
somewhat  in  abeyance  during  the  last  four  years, 
although  it  had  never  wholly  ceased,  for  the  War 
had  impoverished  many  of  those  who  formerly  pos- 
sessed, and  enriched  others  who  were  able  for  the 
first  time  in  their  lives  to  satisfy  a  desire  for  pos- 
session. Thus  the  pendulum  continued  to  swing 
backwards  and  forwards,  and  Moreton  took  advan- 
tage of  its  swinging. 

"I'm  very  anxious  to  see  what  she'll  make  of 
Venice,"  he  told  Pinelli,  in  a  confidential  interview. 
"Of  course,  her  forte  lies  in  landscape.  But  I  saw 
one  or  two  sketches  of  heads  that  were  individual 
and  promising.  She's  got  that  absolute  insistence 
upon  truth  which  you  see  so  prominently  now  in 
young  artists." 

Pinelli  looked  at  the  sketches  and  shrugged  his 
shoulders. 

"She  must  learn  to  draw,"  he  said. 

He  was  an  odd-looking  shaggy  man,  short,  with 
broad  shoulders  and  a  leonine  head.  But  in  his 
immense,  capable  hands  pencils  and  brushes  became 
like  animated  things  that  worked  with  swift  preci- 

123 


i24     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

sion  and  skill,  almost  as  it  were  of  themselves.  Syd- 
ney, obedient,  tractable,  and  desperately  in  earnest, 
worked  under  him  during  the  weeks  of  a  superb 
April  that  followed  her  arrival  in  Venice. 

She  was  not  unhappy,  but  sometimes  she  was  de- 
pressed in  these  new  and  unaccustomed  surround- 
ings. Homesickness,  of  an  unexpected  kind,  as- 
sailed her.  She  had  never  been  so  separated  from 
her  own  family  before,  and  though  they  had  often 
seemed  unsympathetic  and  uncongenial,  she  missed 
them  more  than  she  had  believed  possible.  Moira 
never  wrote  to  her,  Jack  but  seldom,  and  the  post- 
cards, which  were  all  that  Lady  Flood's  injured 
pride  would  permit  her  to  send,  were  singularly  un- 
illuminating.  Towards  the  beginning  of  May  she 
read  a  brief  announcement  in  the  New  York  Herald 
to  the  effect  that  Lord  and  Lady  Wanley  had  re- 
turned to  London  and  had  taken  up  their  abode 
at  500  Park  Lane.  So  it  had  come  to  this — she 
must  learn  family  happenings  through  the  newspa- 
pers. Her  mother  had  never  alluded  to  Moira's 
return,  and  Sydney  had  always  thought  they  intended 
to  spend  a  much  longer  time  abroad.  The  truth 
was  that  Egypt  had  not  suited  Moira ;  the  heat  was 
already  intense  when  they  arrived  in  Cairo,  and 
Wanley,  terrified  at  the  signs  of  indisposition  on 
the  part  of  his  beloved  bride,  took  their  passages  by 
the  next  steamer,  and  returned  home.  They  did  not 
even  spend  a  few  weeks  in  the  South  of  France  as 
they  had  originally  intended. 

But  there  were  times  when  these  little  annoyances 
were  utterly  forgotten  by  Sydney  Flood,  determined 
to  do  her  best  and  to  make  the  best,  too,  of  her  new 
life.  They  were  the  days  when  Venice  held  her 
in  a  warm,  close  clasp  that  chased  away  homesick- 
ness and  made  life  supremely  worth  while.  Venice 
was  so  beautiful  on  certain  days,  in  certain  lights, 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     125 

that  its  loveliness,  always  so  great,  seemed  to  be- 
come almost  unearthly.  This  city  of  sky  and  sea, 
of  light  and  water,  dazzled  you.  You  could  only 
gaze  bewildered,  almost  doubting  its  reality,  half 
believing,  too,  that  it  must  vanish  as  you  looked. 
All  that  had  been  written  about  it  or  said  of  it,  was 
inadequate,  for  no  words  could  translate  its  beauty 
into  phrases  that  could  in  any  way  describe  it.  Its 
spell  had  indeed  begun  for  Sydney  that  first  night, 
during  the  swift  rushing  across  the  lagoon  from 
Fusina,  under  the  stars.  .  .  .  But  the  daylight  im- 
pressions were  wonderful,  too,  when  everything  was 
painted  in  strong  pure  colors,  the  blue  water  and 
bluer  sky,  the  dull  red  or  bright  gold  of  motionless 
sails  poised  like  butterflies  upon  the  lagoon,  the  rosy 
effect  of  San  Giorgio,  the  uplifted  towers,  rising 
everywhere  above  the  water,  leaning  sometimes  a 
little  towards  each  other  as  if  in  the  act  of  whisper- 
ing some  ancient  subtle  secret.  There  were  gar- 
dens overhung  with  roses  and  with  the  pendent 
mauve-gray  garlands  of  wistaria.  Little  gardens 
steeped  in  the  quiet  blue  shade  of  cypress  and  palm 
and  ilex,  with  a  fountain  perhaps,  a  gray  statue  that 
was  white  when  the  sun  shone  upon  it,  a  rim  of  scar- 
let flowers  lifting  diminutive  torches.  Fluid  effects 
of  color  and  light,  and  cool  transparent  shadows; 
the  purple  that  lingered  in  the  shade  of  the  umbrella- 
pines  in  some  ancient  garden  hidden  away  in  a  re- 
cess of  the  city;  the  gold  that  trickled  through  and 
spangled  the  water  below;  the  jade-green  of  shadows 
flung  by  some  old  palace  leaning  over  a  narrow  rio. 
Picture  after  picture  rose  before  her,  framed  arbi- 
trarily by  the  rising  walls  of  the  palaces  that  bor- 
dered those  narrow  canals,  linked  by  an  arching  stone 
bridge.  No  sound  of  street  traffic  ever  fell  on  the 
ear;  one  walked  freely,  safely,  from  place  to  place, 
through  quiet  squares,  across  tiny  bridges,  through 


126     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

busy  markets,  and  streets  of  gay  shops  full  of  the 
wares  of  Paris.  Not  a  horse,  not  a  bicycle,  not  a 
motor-car,  was  ever  to  be  seen  there.  The  traffic 
was  all  relegated  to  those  intricate  winding  water- 
ways, to  the  broad  canals,  to  the  open,  sunny 
lagoons. 

But  there  was  necessarily  loneliness  in  this  new 
life.  Cut  off  from  all  her  former  companions  and 
associates,  Sydney  depended  entirely  upon  Roma  for 
companionship.  And  Roma  was  far  too  much  oc- 
cupied to  have  leisure  to  attend  to  her.  She  had 
many  friends  in  Venice;  she  loved  to  spend  a  great 
deal  of  time  on  the  water,  in  her  own  gondola  or 
motor-boat.  She  made  frequent  expeditions  with 
gay  parties  of  her  friends  to  the  more  distant  islands, 
and  she  did  not  often  invite  Sydney  to  accompany 
her.  It  would  hardly  have  occurred  to  her  to  do 
so.  Sydney  was  staying  with  them  for  a  definite  pur- 
pose, and  she  must  not  be  encouraged  to  waste  her 
time.  If  she  had  only  her  art  to  look  to  in  the 
future,  it  would  be  cruel  to  diminish  her  opportuni- 
ties for  studying  now.  So  Roma  reasoned,  and 
Moreton  supported  her  in  this  view. 

"She  hasn't  come  here  to  play,"  he  said,  "and  she 
can  potter  about  Venice  as  much  as  she  likes  by  her- 
self." 

Sydney  pottered  a  great  deal.  She  admired 
whole-heartedly  the  tall  and  slender  Venetian  girls, 
their  shoulders  draped  with  the  deep-fringed  silken 
shawls  that  they  wore  with  such  a  superb,  natural 
grace.  Dark-haired,  red-haired,  golden-haired,  with 
the  dark  eyes  of  the  South,  or  the  bright  blue  ones 
that  belong  to  Northern  peoples,  they  were,  to 
Sydney's  thinking,  always  graceful  and  often  very 
beautiful.  The  shawls  closely  wrapped  about  them 
gave  a  narrow  look  to  their  shoulders,  and  often 
increased  the  slenderness  of  their  outline.  They 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON      127 

wore  no  hats  on  their  wonderful  hair,  and  their 
skins  had  that  golden  look  which  only  a  southern 
sun  can  impart. 

It  was  not  the  best  of  years  for  seeing  the  treas- 
ures of  Venice.  The  Accademia  was  still  closed. 
Many  of  the  pictures  and  treasures  had  not  returned 
from  their  mournful  exile  to  the  cellars  of  Rome 
and  Florence ;  others  had  come  back  but  had  not  as 
yet  been  restored  to  their  ancient  places.  But  the 
four  bronze  horses  galloped  triumphantly  upon  St. 
Mark's,  and  the  great  equestrian  statue  of  Colleoni 
rode,  as  has  been  well  said,  into  space,  before  the 
Church  of  SS.  Giovanni  and  Paolo. 

Unknown  to  Sydney,  Pinelli's  first  report  was  none 
too  favorable,  a  fact  which  quenched  Moreton's  ar- 
dor a  little.  But  Pinelli  was  ever  slow  to  cry 
genius.  There  was  aptitude,  a  pretty  little  talent, 
a  touch  of  individuality.  But  she  needed  years  of 
training.  She  hadn't  the  technical  equipment  of  the 
average  art-student  of  her  years.  Sydney  was  nerv- 
ously aware  that  Moreton  watched  her  closely.  He 
was  impatient,  he  wanted  her  to  develop,  to  blos- 
som, immediately.  She  mustn't  idle.  Not  being 
an  artist  himself  made  him  unaware  of  the  absolute 
need  of  idle  hours  in  an  artist's  life.  Sydney  needed 
space  and  leisure  in  which  to  absorb  all  these  won- 
derful novel  impressions,  to  steep  herself  in  this  new 
fluid  world  of  water  and  sky,  with  the  uplifted  tow- 
ers that  seemed  to  rise  on  purpose  to  link  them  like 
a  message  between  earth  and  heaven.  ^ 

Roma  was  always  kind,  counteracting — if  she  no- 
ticed it — Moreton's  impatient  severity.  Sydney's 
devotion  to  her  deepened  profoundly  during  those 
first  weeks;  it  absorbed  her  life  fully  as  much  as 
her  work  did,  and  in  her  imagination  was  even 
subtly  linked  with  it.  A  word,  a  smile,  from  Roma, 
and  she  would  work  with  feverish  energy  for  the 


rest  of  the  day,  scarcely  giving  herself  time  to  eat. 
Whatever  happened  she  must  not  disappoint  Roma. 
And  Pinelli  said  to  Moreton:  "Don't  let  her  work 
so  hard.  She's  overdoing  it — she'll  get  stale."  He 
soon  perceived  in  her  those  signs  of  nervous  exhaus- 
tion, of  acute  tension,  of  feverish,  unnatural  energy 
— things  that  Moreton  and  his  wife  were  too  busy 
or  too  much  preoccupied  to  notice. 

Roma  was  more  adorable  than  ever  in  her  Vene- 
tian setting.  She  seemed  to  belong  to  those  stately, 
splendid  rooms,  with  their  carvings,  their  alabaster 
panels,  their  damask  hangings,  dim  frescoes,  and 
painted  ceilings.  With  her  dark  hair  and  eyes,  her 
slim  long  throat,  her  delicate  small  features,  she 
might  have  been  a  reincarnation  of  some  great  Vene- 
tian lady  of  bygone  days.  One  saw  faces  like  hers 
in  some  of  the  old  pictures  .  .  .  faces  that  held  sad- 
ness and  tragedy  and  yet  the  happiness  that  comes 
to  all  women  of  great  beauty. 

She  had  her  own  little  court  of  men  and  women. 
There  were  rich  English  and  Americans,  passing 
through  Venice  on  their  way  home  from  the  South 
and  the  East;  Italians  from  all  parts  of  Italy,  some 
of  whom  had  journeyed  thither  on  purpose  to  see 
the  Cochranes,  full  of  new  schemes  and  plans ;  many 
French,  and  here  and  there  a  sad-eyed  Russian  or 
Pole  for  whom  the  long  tragedy  of  the  War  had 
not  yet  terminated.  Roma,  who  had  the  gift  of 
tongues  and  had  also  been  brought  up  entirely 
abroad,  spoke  French  and  Italian  with  equal  ease. 
Among  that  gay,  cosmopolitan  crowd  that  thronged 
their  great  rooms  that  year,  she  was  always  the 
most  beautiful  woman  present.  Little  Sydney 
Flood,  when  she  did  appear,  was  scarcely  more  no- 
ticed than  she  had  been  when  she  had  helped  her 
mother  to  pour  out  tea  in  the  little  Mayfair  draw- 
ing-room. It  seemed  as  if  she  had  brought  with 
her  her  old  cloak  of  invisibility.  Roma  quenched 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     129 

her,  as  at  home  Moira  had  quenched  her.  But  one 
or  two  of  the  older  men  did  take  away  with  them 
a  careful  impression  of  that  young,  blond  English 
girl,  with  the  childishly  bobbed  hair,  and  the  grave 
serious  eyes  set  wide  apart  that  seemed  to  be  gazing 
on  strange  visions.  .  .  . 

May  passed,  and  June  set  in  with  unusual  heat 
that  year.  Sydney,  nurtured  in  the  North,  failed  a 
little  under  it  at  first.  She  had  a  disinclination  to 
stir;  she  spent  long  hours  gazing  from  her  upper 
windows  at  the  busy  life  of  the  Grand  Canal.  She 
could  have  drawn  by  heart  those  gray  Gothic  pal- 
aces opposite — mute  witnesses  of  a  past  age  of  glory 
and  luxury  when  Venice  had  made  a  chapter  in  the 
history  of  the  world.  She  thought  of  the  genera- 
tions of  men  and  women,  now  among  the  immortals 
perhaps,  who  had  lived  here,  died  here,  had  come 
and  gone,  had  watched  as  she  was  watching,  had 
steeped  themselves  in  this  unreal  beauty,  and 
breathed  the  soft  air  of  the  wide  salt  lagoons. 
Venice  in  summer  was  assuredly  a  place  to  be  idle 
in.  She  was  ashamed  of  her  small  accomplishment 
— -of  her  daily  shirking  of  her  task.  There  was  a 
new  wish  to  be  with  Roma — to  go  out  with  her  in 
the  motor-boat,  and  feel  the  quick  rush  of  air  against 
her  hot  face.  It  was  a  little  lonely  up  here,  by  one- 
self, in  the  heat.  .  .  . 

The  grass  in  the  little  garden  was  growing  brown. 
The  wistaria  hung  out  the  darker  violet  pendants 
of  its  second  blossoming.  The  palms  and  banana 
plants  acquired  a  fresher  green;  heat  such  as  this 
was  their  natural  element.  The  oleanders  burned 
with  steady  flame,  making  patches  of  rose-colored 
fire  that  decorated  every  garden  and  hung  over  each 
narrow  canal.  There  were  two  pure  white  ones 
in  the  Cochranes'  little  garden ;  they  blossomed  bride- 
like  amid  the  twilight  shadows  of  ilex  and  cypress. 
Roma  had  arranged  some  immense  silken  parasols 


130      THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

of  deep  rose-color  in  the  garden,  with  chairs  and 
little  tables  set  beneath  them.  When  they  sat  there, 
as  they  often  did  in  the  morning  and  late  evening, 
they  could  see  the  traffic  on  the  Grand  Canal,  the 
crowded  steamers,  the  noisy  motor-boats,  the  gon- 
dolas stately  and  solemn,  passing  up  and  down. 

Her  first  inertia  over,  Sydney  resumed  her  old 
walks.  St.  Mark's  was- — ^as  indeed  it  is  to  most 
visitors — the  magnet  that  perpetually  attracted  her. 
She  liked  the  wide  spaciousness  of  the  piazza,  home 
of  those  flocks  of  expectant  pigeons  that  fluttered 
their  iridescent  wings  in  the  strong  fierce  sunlight; 
the  five  pale  golden  domes  outlined  against  the  pure 
blue  of  the  sky;  the  great  campanile  that  dwarfed 
everything,  standing  apart  and  isolated,  a  rosy  shaft 
lifted  heavenwards.  It  was  meant  to  be  seen  from 
the  sea  and  the  lagoon  when  it  arose  splendid  and 
dominating.  But  it  was  the  church  itself  that  fas- 
cinated her,  with  its  dim  recesses,  the  glimmer  of 
gold  from  its  ancient  exquisite  mosaics,  its  wonder- 
fully colored  pavement,  jewel-like  in  its  many-hued 
beauty.  It  is  perhaps  one  of  the  most  devotional 
churches  in  the  world,  and  its  atmosphere  strongly 
impressed  Sydney.  Once  she  was  present  at  High 
Mass  there,  when  all  the  church  was  in  festa,  and 
she  saw  the  Cardinal  Patriarch  enter  in  procession, 
attended  by  bishops  and  priests,  and  wearing  the 
flowing  scarlet  of  his  gala  array.  She  saw  a  face 
like  that  of  some  ancient  Doge,  carven,  pale,  con- 
trolled. She  saw  him  kneeling  in  prayer  by  the 
chapel  of  the  Blessed  Sacrament,  before  ascending 
to  his  throne  in  the  choir.  She  heard  the  magnifi- 
cent singing,  and  was  present  for  the  first  time  at 
the  Holy  Sacrifice.  It  was  a  moment  never  to  be 
forgotten.  She  recovered  something  of  that  strange 
thrill  of  emotion  she  had  experienced  when  she  had 
first  seen  the  light  on  the  lagoon  burning  before  a 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     131 

shrine  of  the  Madonna.  It  was  about  that  time 
that  she  came  across  a  Missal  in  English  and  Latin 
in  an  old  shop  and  purchased  it.  It  would  explain, 
she  felt  certain,  all  that  she  was  unable  to  under- 
stand. She  studied  it  closely,  and  learned  to  "fol- 
low" Mass.  Even  Roma  had  no  idea  whither  her 
thoughts  were  tending.  She  felt  shy  of  speaking 
about  spiritual  things  to  Roma,  recognizing  her  as 
one  of  those  bright  pagan  spirits  that  pass  through 
life  untouched  by  any  craving  for  religious  consola- 
tion. 

Her  new  quest  was  strongly  stimulated  by  the 
splendor  of  the  Venetian  pictures.  It  was  the  Cath- 
olic content  of  their  art  that  chiefly  amazed  her. 
The  Last  Supper,  the  Descent  from  the  Cross,  the 
Crucifixion,  the  Madonna  and  Child  with  attendant 
Saints — these  passed  before  her  eyes  in  almost  every 
church  she  visited.  It  was  an  example  of  the  effect 
of  religion  and  faith  upon  art  which  should  silence 
all  latter-day  scoffers,  and  the  melancholy  upholders 
of  the  Art-for-Art's-sake  theory.  Art  when  di- 
vorced from  Faith  seemed  to  lose  much  of  its  value, 
perhaps  the  whole  of  its  spiritual  value,  which  is 
the  most  permanent  of  all.  But  it  was  Art  that 
was  the  loser,  not  Faith.  Faith  still  continued  mag- 
nificently in  this  Church  to  which  such  divine  and 
eternal  promises  had  been  made.  It  was  neither 
moribund  nor  dead,  as  Sydney  had  sometimes  heard 
said  of  it  in  England.  It  was  as  strong  and  vital 
a  factor  in  Catholic  countries  as  it  had  ever  been; 
its  mission  work  was  now  second  to  none  in  the 
whole  course  of  its  history  since  the  first  Apostolic 
days.  And  the  sight  of  those  pictures — painted  for 
God,  for  the  decoration  of  His  holy  house,  to  teach 
the  story  of  Our  Divine  Lord's  life  upon  earth  sim- 
ply, to  the  poor  and  illiterate,  yet  with  a  profound 
spiritual  knowledge  and  with  a  wealth  of  deeper 


132     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

meaning  to  the  educated — disheartened  Sydney  in 
her  own  poor  endeavor,  more  than  any  adverse  criti- 
cism from  Moreton  or  from  Pinelli  could  have  done. 
She  saw  that  she  wholly  lacked  spiritual  inspira- 
tion and  vision,  and  without  these  it  seemed  to  her 
now  that  no  art  could  ever  be  supremely  worth 
while.  It  could  only  be  pretty  and  charming,  pleas- 
ant to  the  eye,  mere  portraiture  or  a  thing  of  topo- 
graphical interest,  but  of  deeper  meaning  it  would 
possess  nothing.  It  was  their  spiritual  content 
that  made  these  old  paintings  so  amazingly  vital  and 
triumphant. 

She  began  to  experience,  too,  something  of  a  Cath- 
olic's devotion  for  the  Saints,  those  great  and  holy 
emissaries  of  God  who  seemed  to  bring  His  Heaven 
a  little  closer  to  earth.  St.  Mark  with  his  winged 
lion,  St.  Theodore  with  his  crocodile,  were  the  two 
patron  saints  of  Venice  whose  reign  had  lasted  across 
the  centuries,  and  whose  guardianship  of  the  sea- 
girt city  was  never  suffered  to  be  forgotten.  Yet 
the  wish  to  be  a  Catholic,  to  participate  personally 
in  the  divine  riches  of  the  Church,  had  not  as  yet 
come  to  her.  She  was  groping,  and  she  found  help 
here  of  a  practical  salutary  kind.  But  she  did  won- 
der sometimes  how  Roma  had  managed  to  live  so 
long  in  Venice  without  ever  being  touched  by  its 
spiritual  message.  Did  she  walk  blindly  among 
these  calm  Madonnas,  these  wistful  suffering  Saints, 
and  only  pause  to  admire  the  wonderful  dexterity 
with  which  they  were  grouped,  colored,  and  por- 
trayed? Did  she  never  think  of  the,  faith  that 
lit  the  lamp  on  the  lagoon,  and  prompted  the  prayer 
from  the  passer-by? 

At  times  Sydney  had  a  great  longing  to  discuss 
these  things  with  some  one  who  knew  and  under- 
5tood,  and  could  satisfy  her  craving  for  exact  knowl- 
edge on  the  subject.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XII 

IT  was  in  July  that  a  letter  came  which  seemed 
abruptly  to  disturb  the  easy-going,  calm  order  of 
the  household  on  the  Grand  Canal. 

The  heat  was  now  intensified,  but  it  had  become 
part  of  an  ordered  and  accepted  condition  of  things, 
and  ceased  to  arouse  comment.  Outside  shutters 
darkened  the  windows  all  through  the  hot  hours 
of  the  day.  Roma  enjoyed  the  hot  weather,  and 
spent  hours  in  dreamy  indolence  in  her  gondola, 
or  racing  over  to  one  of  the  islands  in  the  motor- 
boat.  Most  of  her  English  and  French  friends 
had  fled  before  the  heat,  but  the  Italian  ones  re- 
mained. She  never  lacked  company  of  the  gay  and 
wealthy  beautifully  dressed  kind  that  suited  her. 
She  and  Sydney  had  made  little  progress  in  intimacy, 
but  she  could  always  fan  the  girl's  admiration  for 
her  to  a  fine  glow  by  going  up  to  her  studio,  look- 
ing at  her  work,  and  uttering  a  few  gentle,  caressing 
words  before  she  went  downstairs  again. 

The  letter  was  from  Clive.  He  wrote  announc- 
ing that  he  was  coming  to  Venice.  Mrs.  Cochrane 
received  it  at  luncheon,  and  immediately  made  known 
its  contents. 

"Clive  is  coming,"  she  said  carelessly.  "The 
Erskines  have  thrown  him  over,  so  he  is  not  going 
to  Scotland  with  them.  It  was  absurd  of  him  to 
say  that  he  would.  But  Clive  is  unlucky  this  year 
! — all  his  plans  have  collapsed."  She  threw  the  let- 
ter across  the  table  to  Moreton. 

"But,  my  dear — "  began  Moreton. 

Roma  cut  him  short.  Both  she  and  Sydney  seemed 

133 


134     THE  LIGHT.  ON  THE  LAGOON 

to    guess    exactly    what    he    had    been    going    to 
say. 

"Of  course  he  can  go  to  the  hotel.  It'll  only  be 
for  a  week  or  two,  as  with  this  heat  I  intend  to  go 
to  the  Lido  earlier  than  usual  this  year,"  Roma 
said. 

"You'll  never  get  a  room  for  him.  The  hotels 
are  all  full.  You  forget  people  haven't  been  able 
to  come  here  for  the  last  four  years,"  grumbled 
Moreton,  glancing  over  the  letter.  Clive's  writing 
was  very  clear;  he  could  read  it  without  glasses. 

"The  Duke  of  Rimini  is  at  the  Splendid.  Clive 
can  go  there.  He  adores  them  both." 

"He  may  not  like  to  pay  the  price  of  a  room  at 
the  Splendid." 

"He  can  have  his  meals  with  us,"  replied  Roma. 

She  never  lost  her  temper,  never  argued  with 
Moreton.  But  unfailingly  she  always  succeeded  in 
getting  her  own  way.  Indeed,  it  seemed  to  Syd- 
ney sometimes  that  there  was  a  conspiracy  on  the 
part  of  all  about  her  to  smooth  her  path  for  her. 
Roma  accepted  such  voluntary  smoothings  as  a  mat- 
ter of  course.  Thus  she  went  through  life  tread- 
ing, metaphorically  speaking,  upon  a  soft  carpet. 
If  the  carpet  had  not  been  there  .  .  .  But  such  a 
contingency  was  unthinkable !  .  .  . 

"He  will  never  put  up  with  a  room  over  a  court- 
yard," said  Moreton,  "and  that's  all  he's  likely  to 
get  at  the  Splendid  now." 

"I  shall  see  that  he  gets  a  good  room,"  said  Roma. 
"I  shall  send  Alfredo  this  afternoon  to  find  out 
about  it." 

"When's  he  coming?"  said  Moreton,  referring 
again  to  the  letter.  "Oh,  Thursday — that's  in  three 
days'  time.  Well,  we'd  better  make  our  plans  for 
going  to  the  Lido  as  soon  as  possible.  Clive's  very 
fond  of  the  Lido." 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     135 

Sydney  had  been  there  nearly  three  months,  and 
though  he  was  still  passionately  interested  in  her  as 
a  promising  young  artist,  whose  work  had  improved 
by  leaps  and  bounds  since  her  sojourn  in  Venice, 
Moreton  was  compelled  to  admit  that  he  was  grow- 
ing a  little  weary  of  her  as  a  perpetual  inmate  of  his 
own  house.     Clive,  he  reflected,  was  never  a  gene. 
He  was  too  much  like  a  son  of  the  house;  he  was 
familiar  with  all  its  intimate  side,  and  thus  could 
never*  be  in  the  way.     They  discussed  plans  and 
business  affairs  and  difficulties  freely  in   front  of 
him,  and  he  often  helped  them  with  his  sagacious 
worldly-wise  advice.     Clive  kept  Moreton  in  touch 
with  the  younger  generation,  prevented  him  from 
being  or  feeling  himself  an  old  fogey.     But  More- 
ton  felt  that  Sydney  was  very  often  in  the  way,  and 
sometimes  he  wondered  how  much  longer   Roma 
meant  to  keep  her  there.     Roma  seemed  fond  of 
the  girl,  but  in  a  careless,  negligent  way.     Sydney 
was  nervous  with  Moreton,  and  this  obvious  nerv- 
ousness reacted  on  his  own  highly-strung  tempera- 
ment.    She  was  pretty,  of  course;  he  hadn't  realized 
in  London  quite  how  pretty  she  was  in  that  delicate 
blond  fashion  of  hers.     It  was  an  elusive  sort  of 
beauty  that  one  might  very  well  pass  by  without  per- 
ceiving it.     He  wondered  what  Clive  would  make 
of  her,  and  whether  she  would  bore  him,  too.     That 
she  didn't  bore  Roma  was  certainly  a  feather  in 
her  cap,   for  Roma  quickly  grew  weary  of  girls. 
She  enjoyed  stimulating  their  admiration  up  to  a 
certain  point,  but  having  done  so,  she  liked  to  turn 
to  fresh  fields  for  conquest.   Novelty  always  charmed 
her,  and  she  especially  liked  the  novelty  of  a  new- 
comer's point  of  view.     It  was  when  her  influence 
resulted  in  a  slavish  copying  of  her  own  methods  and 
views  that  Roma  sickened  of  her  success.     But  Syd- 
ney never  echoed  Roma's  opinions;  she  had  sturdy 


136     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

ones  of  her  own.  Perhaps  that  was  why  Roma 
hadn't  yet  tired  of  having  her  there,  was  still  kind 
and  even  tender  in  her  attitude  towards  her.  And 
it  was  quite  evident  that  Roma  didn't  intend  to  get 
rid  of  her  in  order  to  make  room  for  Clive.  Clive 
was  to  be  sent  to  the  hotel. 

Moreton  surveyed  Sydney's  work  at  regular  in- 
tervals. Although  he  could  not  draw  a  line  him- 
self, his  eye  for  perspective  and  values  was  unfailing. 
The  least  fault  in  technique  disturbed  him  as  a 
wrong  note  in  music  would  have  done  the  tender 
ear  of  a  musician.  But  Sydney's  technique  had  im- 
proved wonderfully  under  Pinelli;  her  drawing  was 
now  accurate  and  fearless.  When  annoyed  with 
her,  Moreton  would  tell  himself  secretly  that  she 
was  entirely  derivative  and  imitative.  Already  she 
had  acquired  one  or  two  of  Pinelli's  more  pro- 
nounced mannerisms.  She  wanted,  he  felt,  the  en- 
ergy of  strong  originality,  the  power  to  see  for  her- 
self with  her  own  eyes.  She  tried  to  do  what  was 
expected  of  her — a  fatal  thing!  He  would  have 
liked  to  see  her  launch  out  into  strong  original 
work.  Without  some  bold  effort  of  the  kind  you 
could  not  have  the  inestimable  experience  of  fail- 
ure. That  was  what  he  told  himself.  It  would 
do  her  good  to  fail  pitiably,  and,  "baffled,  get  up, 
and  begin  again."  Sydney's  work  was  like  herself, 
delicate,  charming,  accurate.  She  had  the  sort  of 
talent  that  is  better  left  alone  when  it  has  had  suffi- 
cient technical  training  to  insure  accuracy  of  draw- 
ing. But  Moreton,  in  his  restless  ambition  for  her, 
failed  to  see  this.  He  could  only  perceive  that  she 
lacked  force  and  vigor.  He  wanted  to  see  the  splen- 
did, if  faulty,  effort  of  youth  in  her  work,  the  mu- 
tiny, the  self-assertion,  the  individuality,  that  deter- 
mined flinging  down  of  the  old  standards  and  the 
setting  up  of  new  ones  in  their  stead,  that  so  char- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     137 

acterized  this  gravely  proven  generation  now  that 
it  was  freed  from  the  ghastly  work  of  war.  The 
mutiny  of  youth!  .  .  .  Why,  the  world  was  full 
of  it,  it  had  invaded  art  as  well  as  life.  Poetry — 
music — painting — all  were  full  of  a  new  spirit  and 
meaning.  Oh,  the  young  and  sad  eyes  that  had  seen 
too  much,  and  had  been  filled  with  rage,  rebellion, 
and  anguish!  .  .  .  Moreton  couldn't  believe  that 
Sydney  could  be  quite  destitute  of  that  fierce,  young, 
modern  spirit.  She  was,  after  all,  the  child  of  her 
generation.  She  had  seen  how  necessary  it  was 
for  her  art  that  she  should  break  completely  away 
from  the  cramping  atmosphere  of  a  highly  conven- 
tional home.  And  in  the  hospital  she  must  have 
seen  at  close  quarters,  the  broken  men  scarcely  older 
than  herself,  that  costly  wreckage  of  the  battlefields 
of  France  and  Flanders.  .  .  . 

It  was  only  at  rare  intervals  that  Sydney  seemed 
to  Moreton  to  vouchsafe  in  her  work  something  of 
that  cold  and  deliberate  truth  which  for  him  had 
invested  her  Winter  Day  in  Chelsea  with  so  much 
charm.  A  bleak  charm,  it  must  be  said,  but  one 
that  had  led  him  to  expect  great  things  from  the 
artist.  He  would  praise  her  then,  but  his  words  of 
praise  were  not  very  frequent.  Sydney  was  almost 
as  unmoved  by  them  as  she  was  now  by  his  harsh 
wounding  sarcasms  that  at  first  had  reduced  her 
to  tears.  She  valued  his  opinion,  but  she  saw  him 
moody  and  irritable,  influenced  too,  to  a  curious  ex- 
tent, by  Pinelli. 

Whereas,  a  word  of  praise  or  of  appreciation 
from  Roma  would  set  her  in  the  seventh  heaven  of 
ecstasy.  In  Roma's  hands  she  was  like  some  sensi- 
tive, highly  attuned  instrument.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  prospect  of  dive's  arrival  made  Sydney 
slightly  uneasy.  She  was  aware  that  Moreton 
would  have  preferred  him  to  return  to  his  old  quar- 
ters. That  Roma  for  some  reason  was  averse  to 
this,  was  also  perfectly  apparent.  Sydney  was  wise 
enough  to  see  that  his  coming  would  inevitably  cause 
a  considerable  change  in  their  life. 

When  luncheon  was  over  she  went  up  to  her  room. 
It  was  darkened,  but  she  groped  her  way  across 
to  the  window  and  unfastened  the  wooden  shutters. 
She  had  not  yet  accustomed  herself  to  live  in  that 
complete  airlessness  such  as  the  Italians  will  endure 
rather  than  admit  the  fierce  summer  heat  into  their 
rooms. 

The  sun  shone  blindingly  on  the  waters  of  the 
Grand  Canal,  and  upon  the  opposite  palaces  with 
their  lovely  stone  tracery  and  decoration.  A  gon- 
dola rocked  in  front  of  one  of  them,  attached  to 
tall  posts  that  were  painted  in  bright  tones  of  red 
and  gold  and  stood  out  of  the  water. 

Below  in  the  garden,  Moreton  and  Roma  were 
smoking  under  the  great  silken  sunshades.  The 
echo  of  their  subdued  voices  scarcely  reached  her. 
Once  she  heard  Moreton  laugh — his  rather  shrill, 
unpleasant  laugh.  She  closed  the  shutters  again 
and  threw  herself  on  the  sofa  for  her  afternoon 
siesta. 

Downstairs  Moreton  was  saying  to  his  wife:  "I 
don't  like  the  thought  of  the  boy  having  to  put  up 
at  the  Splendid;  it's  such  an  expense  for  him.  You'd 

138 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     139 

far  better  let  that  girl  go  into  rooms  somewhere — 
she's  been  here  quite  long  enough." 

Roma  smoked  steadily  in  silence  for  a  few  min- 
utes before  she  answered.  Her  indolent,  beautiful 
eyes  were  gazing  dreamily  through  the  cool  green 
mist  of  the  trees  to  the  shining  water  beyond.  She 
was  dressed  in  white  muslin,  and  in  this  simple  at- 
tire looked  hardly  more  than  a  girl. 

"My  dear  Moreton — I'd  rather  send  her  back 
home  than  do  that.  I  should  as  soon  think  of  turn- 
ing a  child  out  into  the  street  on  a  winter  night, 
as  letting  her  go  into  rooms.  She  hardly  speaks 
a  word  of  Italian,"  she  answered  after  a  brief  pause. 

She  lifted  one  slim  arm  and  put  it  behind  her 
head  as  she  leaned  back  on  the  long  wicker  chair. 
Her  arms  were  slender  and  strong,  with  tiny  wrists 
and  hands.  The  very  short  sleeves  she  wore  re- 
vealed all  their  beauty.  , 

"She's  not  working  as;  she  should,"  grumbled 
Moreton. 

"I  should  think  not,  indeed,  with  this  tempera- 
ture." Roma's  voice  was  indolent  and  good-tem- 
pered. "You  are  quite  unreasonable,  dear  More- 
ton." 

"Pinelli's  pretty  sick  of  her,  I'm  sure,  though  he 
doesn't  say  so.  But  I  mean  to  tell  her  what  I  think 
very  soon.  I  don't  care  if  she  cries  or  not." 

"She  won't  cry,"  prophesied  Roma,  "and  if  she 
did,  do  you  suppose  it  would  improve  her  work? 
You  and  Pinelli  have  a  genius  for  making  these  po^r 
young  students  miserable.  I  have  seen  Sydney  quite 
depressed  sometimes,  though  she  never  says  a  word. 
But  I've  done  my  best  to  keep  up  her  courage." 

"You  ought  not  to  try  to.  But,  of  course,  she's 
at  your  feet,"  he  said  grumblingly. 

''Is  she?"  Roma  spoke  indifferently.  "I  really 
don't  know.  Of  course,  I  think  she  likes  me.  Be- 


140     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

sides,  you  say  that  of  everybody.  I'm  sorry  for 
her  sometimes.  I'd  like  to  take  her  out  with  me 
more,  but  I'm  afraid  of  interfering  with  her  work." 

"It  is  far  kinder  to  leave  her  quite  alone." 

"Well,  anyhow  I'm  not  going  to  send  her  away. 
And,  Moreton,  take  my  advice  and  leave  her  alone 
for  a  bit.  You'll  only  make  her  self-conscious,  and 
then  she  won't  be  able  to  work  at  all.  She's  be- 
wildered here — Venice — -Italy — it's  all  so  new  to 
her!  She'd  be  wise  not  to  touch  a  pencil  or  brush 
for  a  few  months.  Of  course,  she's  not  able  to 
paint  here  yet — she  ought  to  steep  herself  in  Venice 
before  she  even  tries !" 

Moreton  always  listened  to  his  wife.  He  be- 
lieved in  her,  cherishing  always  an  ardent  half- 
superstitious  conviction  that  she  was  right.  But 
he  only  said: 

"Perhaps  I  was  wrong  to  interfere  with  her  at 
all.  She  ought  to  have  married  that  young  Philis- 
tine who  was  in  love  with  her,  and  looked  after  his 
house  and  brought  up  her  babies." 

"Dear  Moreton!"  murmured  Roma,  remonstrat- 
ingly. 

"Well,  I  hate  the  thought  of  letting  Clive  go  to 
an  hotel." 

"You  needn't  worry  about  him.  The  Riminis  will 
be  delighted  to  have  him  all  to  themselves.  And  I 
shall  go  to  the  Lido  quite  soon." 

"And  is  Miss  Flood  to  come  to  the  Lido,  too?" 
he  inquired. 

"Of  course  she  is!  I'm  going  to  put  her  up  in 
that  turret  room — I  know  it's  an  oven,  but  she  won't 
mind  that,  as  long  as  she  can  bask  in  my  smiles. 
There's  plenty  of  room  for  every  one." 

Moreton  was  mollified  as  these  plans  were  dis- 
closed to  him.  He  had  never  known  Roma  aj- 
range  to  go  to  her  villa  on  the  Lido  so  early  in 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     141 

the  season  before.  Probably,  though  she  didn't  say 
so,  she  was  doing  it  on  Clive's  account.  He  con- 
soled himself  with  the  belief  that  her  somewhat 
cavalier  treatment  of  Clive  wasn't  really  intentional. 

Roma  was  fond  of  her  villa  on  the  Lido,  and 
felt  that  its  possession  gave  her  importance.  More- 
ton  had  bought  it,  at  her  instigation,  for  a  mere  song 
the  first  year  of  the  War.  Its  owner  had  been 
pessimistic  about  the  fate  of  Venice,  and  was  glad 
to  get  rid  of  it  even  at  the  price  Moreton  offered. 
Roma  had  encouraged  the  purchase,  because  she  said 
it  was  as  safe — for  a  speculative  investment — as 
most  things.  She  was  never  the  ambassador  of 
prudence,  and  often  encouraged  Moreton  in  a  spirit 
of  recklessness.  He  generally  followed  her  advice. 
He  used  to  say  that  she  brought  him  luck. 

When  she  left  him  and  went  up  to  her  room  for 
the  prolonged  siesta  she  daily  indulged  in,  Moreton 
remained  in  the  garden.  He  had  a  conviction  that 
perhaps  she  was  right  about  Sydney.  The  girl 
ought  to  be  left  alone,  and  steep  herself  in  these 
new  impressions.  And  Roma  genuinely  liked  hav- 
ing her  there.  She  didn't  see  a  great  deal  of  her — 
perhaps  that  was  the  reason — but  she  found  her  a 
restful  little  companion  in  her  rare  hours  of  leisure. 
Fortunately,  so  ran  Moreton's  thoughts,  the  villa  at 
the  Lido  was  spacious  enough  to  hold  them  all.  It 
had  been  built  by  a  man  who  wanted  a  summer 
residence  for  his  own  large  family  of  boys  and  girls. 
Moreton  looked  forward  as  eagerly  to  Clive's  com- 
ing as  if  he  had  really  been  his  own  son.  Some- 
times he  used  to  tell  himself  that  a  son  could  hardly 
have  been  dearer  to  him  than  this  nonchalant  young 
cousin.  Moreton  was  nearly  thirty  years  his  senior, 
and  looked  even  more,  for  Clive  was  one  of  those 
fair  boyish-looking  men  who  preserve  their  youthful 
appearance  far  into  middle  life. 


i42     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

It  would  have  been  difficult  for  any  one  who 
had  known  the  Cochranes  ever  since  their  marriage, 
to  have  pictured  their  menage  without  Clive;  he 
seemed  so  much  one  of  the  family.  He  was  the 
kind  of  man  that  is  found  sometimes  in  the  house 
of  a  childless  married  couple,  having  his  assured  if 
ill-defined  position  as  a  permanent  inmate,  never 
exciting  the  jealousy  of  either  husband  or  wife,  and 
possessing  a  room  of  his  own  where  he  can  always 
leave  his  things. 

It  was  the  first  time  Roma  had  ever  stood  in  the 
way  of  his  coming  back  to  them,  and  Moreton  un- 
easily hoped  that  it  would  be  the  last.  That  she 
had  coolly  given  up  his  rooms  to  some  one  else  had 
established  a  precedent,  and  Moreton  feared  that 
it  might  make  Clive  regard  his  position  in  their 
house  as  less  secure  than  formerly.  And,  of 
course,  he  shouldn't  like  that  to  happen.  When 
he  first  married  Roma,  he  had  scarcely  liked  to 
broach  the  subject  of  Clive  to  her;  he  was  so 
afraid  that  she  might  object  to  the  presence  in 
their  house  of  this  seventeen-year-old  schoolboy 
during  the  holidays.  But  Roma,  after  seeing 
him  for  the  first  time,  had  only  said:  "Oh,  do 
let  him  come!  Why  shouldn't  he?  He's  such  a 
nice  boy,  Moreton!  Only  don't  let  him  call  me 
'aunt.'  I  don't  want  to  be  anybody's  aunt."  Clive 
was  barely  three  years  younger  ,than  Roma,  and  she 
had  made  a  companion  of  him;  they  had  indeed 
seemed  to  Moreton  to  be  very  much  of  an  age,  and 
it  made  the  gap  between  him  and  his  wife  appear 
quite  an  appalling  one.  But  anyhow,  Clive  had 
come  home  as  usual  when  his  next  holidays  began, 
and  they  had  been  Clive  and  Roma  to  each  other 
ever  since.  Moreton's  drowsy  thoughts  had  wan- 
dered back  to  those  early  days  of  his  marriage, 
and  he  could  see  how  little  Roma  had  altered,  how 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     143 

young  she  still  looked,  how  beautiful  she  was.  Even 
more  beautiful,  he  thought,  than  she  had  been  in 
those  early  days. 

Clive,  however,  did  not  come  as  soon  as  they 
had  expected.  He  wrote  frequently  from  Switzer- 
land, where  he  was  staying  with  a  party  of  friends 
whom  he  had  had  the  good  luck,  he  told  them,  to 
meet.  Moreton  chafed  a  little  at  the  delay.  But 
his  brief  outburst  against  Sydney  had  cooled.  Pi- 
nelli  had  praised  her.  Was  she  going  to  be  a  suc- 
cess after  all? 

Several  English  people  passed  through  Venice 
just  then,  and  among  them  were  Lord  and  Lady 
Westing,  old  friends  of  the  Floods.  They  remem- 
bered Sydney,  and  perhaps  for  the  first  time  since 
her  coming  to  Venice,  she  was  noticed,  and  treated 
as  if  she  "counted."  For  despite  her  youth  and 
prettiness  she  failed  to  attract  attention  from  strang- 
ers, and  hitherto  no  one  had  placed  her,  nor  had 
Roma  tried  to  enlighten  any  one  about  her.  She 
was  just  a  student,  one  of  many  whom  Moreton 
in  his  restless  quest  had  befriended.  Roma's  fash- 
ionable friends  had  not  much  use  for  students,  and 
no  one  had  felt  sufficiently  interested  in  Sydney  to 
ask  who  she  was.  Probably  if  it  had  been  made 
known  that  she  was  the  elder  sister  of  the  lovely 
young  Lady  Wanley,  things  might  have  been  dif- 
ferent for  her.  As  it  was,  she  seemed  to  have  no 
social  status;  she  was  there  to  work,  and  opportuni- 
ties for  working  were  rather  too  lavishly  accorded 
to  her.  Husks  had  not  been  wanting  to  this  prodi- 
gal daughter,  but  she  had  swallowed  them  without 
a  murmur.  After  all,  she  possessed  the  two  things 
that  mattered  passionately  just  then — -the  leisure 
in  which  to  work,  and  the  friendship  of  Roma.  It 
never  struck  her  that  that  friendship  was  either  cool 
or  insecure.  She  was  quite  happy — if  she  had  been 


144     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

asked,  she  would  have  responded  that  she  was  per- 
fectly, unbelievably  happy. 

Lady  Westing  was  affectionately  warm  in  her 
greeting,  although  she  secretly  wondered  what  that 
quiet  little  Flood  girl  was  doing  there  at  all.  She 
kissed  her,  and  made  her  sit  down  near  her,  while 
she  plied  her  with  questions  about  her  home  affairs. 
She  herself  had  just  come  from  Malta,  where  Lord 
Westing  had  held  an  important  appointment  dur- 
ing the  War,  and  she  had  seen  Moira  on  her  way 
back  from  Egypt.  The  Wanleys  had  dined  with 
them  in  Valetta.  She  told  Sydney  that  Moira  was 
expecting  a  child  at  the  end  of  the  year. 

The  news  startled  her;  for  the  moment  she  felt 
bewildered.  A  child.  .  .  .  Moira  with  a  little  baby 
of  her  own.  How  happy  she  must  be,  and  yet, 
surely,  with  her  joy  there  must  be  mixed  an  ele- 
ment of  fear.  .  .  . 

Moira  had  always  loved  soft,  young  things.  Kit- 
tens— puppies — yes,  she  would  kiss  and  cuddle  them. 
She  must  be  very  happy  now.  But  the  news  seemed 
to  make  the  gulf  between  the  sisters  a  little  wider. 
Sydney  felt  as  if  she  did  not  know  this  new  Moira. 
She  longed  to  see  her  again.  It  was  Jiorrible — ^^ 
separation.  It  was  unnatural.  They  shouldn't 
have  cut  her  off  as  if  she  had  done  something  dis- 
graceful. Something  of  shame  stung  her,  as  she 
listened  to  Lady  Westing's  exclamations  of  undis- 
guised astonishment  at  her  complete  ignorance  of 
family  happenings. 

"Why,  my  dear  child,  you  don't  mean  to  tell  me 
that  you  didn't  know?  Surely  they  must  have  writ- 
ten— they're  not  making  any  secret  of  it,  for  the 
doctor  has  insisted  upon  Moira's  living  quietly  in 
the  country — she  isn't  at  all  well,  poor  child !" 

"They — they  don't  write  to  me,"  Sydney  confessed 
miserably;  "you  see,  Mamma  was  angry  at  my  tak- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     145 

ing  up  painting  as  a  career  .  .  .  she  hardly  ever 
writes.  .  .  ."  Her  face  was  flushed  and  confused. 
Lady  Westing  looked  at  her  with  compassion. 

"What  nonsense !  I  thought  all  you  young  peo- 
ple did  just  exactly  as  you  pleased  in  these  enlight- 
ened days.  I've  had  to  let  my  daughter  go  and 
train  as  a  regular  hospital  nurse.  She  told  me  that 
amateurs  weren't  wanted  any  more.  Very  sensible 
of  her,  too." 

"I  only  wish  you  would  tell  Mamma  that.  She 
seems  to  think  it  isn't  respectable  to  be  anything  but 
an  amateur!"  Sydney  was  unconscious  of  irony; 
she  voiced  her  mother's  point  of  view,  as  she  thought, 
with  perfect  accuracy. 

"There  must  be  stuff  in  you  if  Moreton  Cochrane 
has  taken  you  up,"  said  Lady  Westing  reflectively, 
their  host  and  hostess  being  just  then  out  of  hear- 
ing at  the  other  end  of  the  great  salone,  where  More- 
ton  was  showing  some  etchings  by  a  new  man  to  her 
husband.  "He  is  about  the  best  judge  of  young 
talent  there  is.  I'd  like  to  see  your  work." 

"Oh,  I'm  at  the  very  beginning,  you  know,"  Syd- 
ney assured  her,  "but  I  love  it,  and  I'm  work- 
ing hard."  Her  pale  fair  face  kindled  as  she 
spoke. 

Lady  Westing  patted  her  hand. 

"I'll  give  your  mother  a  downright  good  scolding, 
and  tell  her  she's  exactly  fifty  years  behind  the 
times !" 

The  little  episode  cheered  Sydney.  She  was  glad 
to  have  seen  a  friendly  face  belonging  to  her  old 
home-life.  But  the  news  about  Moira  had  never- 
theless disturbed  her.  Moira  had  always  been  so 
splendidly  strong  and  well,  so  full  of  energy,  and 
careless  of  fatigue.  Lately  she  had  thought  very 
little  about  her,  or  indeed  any  one  at  home.  They 
had  seemed  like  far-away  shadows.  But  Lady 


146     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

Westing  had  brought  them  all  much  nearer  again, 
and  had  made  Sydney  long  for  news.  Her  old 
sense  of  homesickness  returned.  She  worked  with 
feverish  industry  in  the  days  that  followed.  She 
mustn't  give  herself  time  to  think.  .  .  .  She  even 
forgot  to  dread  the  coming  of  Clive.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XIV 

CLIVE  walked  in  one  day  when  they  were  all  three 
sitting  at  luncheon.     He  wore   a  white   suit, 
with  a  blue  tie  that  emphasized  the  color  of  his  eyes. 
He  looked  well  and  sunburnt. 

"Well,  Uncle  Moreton?  Well,  Roma?  How 
do  you  do,  Miss  Flood?" 

When  he  addressed  Sydney,  his  voice  lost  its 
warmth  and  became  conventional  and  expression- 
less. 

Moreton  sprang  up  eagerly. 

"My  dear  boy !     But  why  didn't  you  let  us  know  ?" 

"I  didn't  know  myself.  We  only  got  in  after 
midnight,  and  I  stayed  in  bed  all  the  morning." 

He  sat  down  opposite  to  Sydney.  A  servant 
quickly  brought  an  extra  plate,  glasses,  knives  and 
forks,  and  set  them  in  front  of  him.  While  these 
preparations  were  in  progress,  Clive  leaned  back  in 
the  high  carved  chair  and  glanced  contentedly,  first 
at  Moreton,  then  at  Roma. 

"Venice  is  the  only  place  in  the  world!  One 
ought  never  to  leave  it  I" 

"You  used  to  say  that  about  Florence,"  Mrs. 
Cochrane  reminded  him.  It  was  the  first  time  she 
had  spoken. 

Clive  paid  no  attention  to  the  little  speech.  "It's 
Tunis  only  more  so,"  he  continued.  "The  lagoons 
are  the  Bitter  Lakes.  The  mountains  are  nearer 
to  Tunis  and  I  think  more  beautiful — -they  rise  so 
enchantingly  along  that  bend  of  the  coast.  But 
then  Tunis  hasn't  these  splendid  towers,  these  wind- 
ing canals."  He  crumbled  his  bread. 

147 


148     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

"Do  eat  your  lunch,  Clive,"  said  Roma. 

Sydney  wondered  a  little  if  she  were  pleased  at 
his  coming.  She  had  evinced  none  of  the  eagerness, 
the  hearty  welcome,  that  had  come  so  spontaneously 
from  Moreton.  Perhaps  she  disliked  being  taken 
by  surprise. 

Clive  ate  obediently,  and  for  a  little  time  was  en- 
grossed with  his  food.  Presently  he  looked  up  and 
said: 

"Roma,  you  are  going  to  take  me  out  in  your  gon- 
dola this  afternoon;  we  must  start  at  six  o'clock, 
and  Alessio  is  to  go  wherever  I  tell  him." 

He  leaned  back,  looked  at  her  and  smiled.  But 
Roma  did  not  smile.  She  answered  quite  seriously : 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  can  go  with  you.  I  think 
I  asked  some  people  to  tea.  You'd  better  take 
Moreton,  he  has  more  influence  with  Alessio  than  I 
have." 

Clive' s  face  fell  a  little. 

"You  can  telephone  and  put  your  friends  off, 
Roma,"  said  Moreton.  "You  know  I've  got  an 
engagement  with  Westing — he  wants  my  opinion 
about  that  Vivarini." 

"You  see,  you  must  really  give  us  a  little  notice 
before  you  descend  upon  us,  Clive,"  said  Roma. 
"We're  not  quite  idle,  even  when  you  aren't  with 
us." 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  said,  in  an  injured  tone.  "I 
ought  to  have  telegraphed.  Perhaps  I  didn't  think 
it  necessary,  as  I  was  going  to  the  hotel.  But  I'll 
go  back  to  the  Splendid  and  get  a  gondola  there." 

"Nonsense !  There's  no  need  for  you  to  do  any- 
thing of  the  kind,"  exclaimed  Moreton  emphati- 
cally; "even  if  Roma  can't  go  with  you  the  gon- 
dola's at  your  disposal." 

"Invite  the  Rimini !"  said  Roma,  with  a  brilliant 
smile. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     149 

Clive  continued  to  eat  his  luncheon  in  silence. 
Once  he  raised  his  eyes  and  looked  across  the  ta- 
ble at  Sydney.  How  pale  she  was — a  delicate  fair 
thing.  Charming,  too,  with  all  that  soft  hair,  cut 
short  like  a  child's.  White  suited  her,  and  that 
touch  of  turquoise  at  the  waist.  She  might  have  sat 
for  a  very  young  Madonna- — one  of  Vivarini's  grave, 
sweet,  youthful  Madonnas.  In  London  he  had  not 
thought  her  pretty.  But  she  had  improved  in  looks 
— she  was  more  carefully  soignee.  Roma's  influ- 
ence, no  doubt !  So  she  was  still  here — she  had  sur- 
vived more  than  three  months  of  it!  She  looked 
up  suddenly  and  her  eyes  met  his,  gravely,  with- 
out confusion. 

"Do  you  like  Venice,  Miss  Flood?"  The  banal 
question  rose  to  his  lips  almost  involuntarily.  "But 
of  course  it's  absurd  to  ask  you  such  a  thing. 
Every  one  likes  it — there  are  no  two  opinions." 

"I  like  it  very  much  indeed,"  said  Sydney,  smil- 
ing. 

She  was  sensitively  aware  of  the  slight  tension. 
Almost  she  felt  as  if  some  subtle,  secret  alliance 
had  arisen  between  herself  and  Clive  as  guests,  ver- 
sus their  host  and  hostess.  An  alliance  defensive 
rather  than  offensive.  Perhaps  fewer  house-parties 
than  is  commonly  supposed  have  been  perfectly  free 
from  this  vaguely  apprehended  esprit  de  corps. 

Sydney  was  glad  when  the  meal  was  over  and  an 
adjournment  was  made  to  the  garden.  After  cof- 
fee had  been  served,  she  slipped  away  up  to  her 
room,  as  she  always  did.  Once  she  leaned  out  of 
the  window  and  glanced  down  at  the  little  group 
below,  sitting  under  the  shade  of  the  tall  rose- 
colored  sunshades.  The  subdued  murmur  of  their 
voices  reached  her.  Once  she  heard  Clive  laugh. 
Harmony  was  restored.  Was  it  her  own  presence 
that  had  created  that  slight  discord,  that  vague  ten- 


150     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

sion?  A  stab  of  pain  ran  through  her.  Was  her 
life  always  to  be  an  accentuated,  aggravated  repe- 
tition of  her  life  at  home  ?  She  had  so  often  felt 
de  trop  with  her  mother  and  Moira  and  their  friends. 
Yet  she  desired  passionately  to  be  "wanted."  Not 
to  be  eternally  left  out  in  the  cold,  nor  to  feel  that 
her  very  presence  was  capable  of  creating  that  slight 
yet  uncomfortable  tension.  She  closed  the  shutters, 
for  the  glare  from  the  bright  water  hurt  her  eyes, 
and  her  head  drooped  on  her  hands.  Had  she  seized 
this  little  bit  of  life,  of  adventure,  only  to  find  it 
disintegrating  in  her  hands  ? 

Downstairs  Clive  was  saying: 

"And  how  are  you  getting  on  with  your  latest 
trouvaille?  Is  she  still  a  swan  or  has  she  shown  a 
disposition  to  hiss?  But  somehow  I  don't  think 
she's  a  goose !  Her  eyes  are — "  He  stopped 
short,  and  his  face  became  meditative. 

Roma  leaned  forward. 

"Well,  Clive!  Let's  hear.  .  .  .  What  are  her 
eyes?" 

"Too  innocent  and  too  intelligent.  How  rarely 
one  sees  the  combination."  He  smiled  slightly. 
They  might  have  done  worse  than  saddle  themselves 
with  Sydney. 

Roma  smiled  encouragingly,  and  Clive  proceeded : 

"I  see  now  that  the  bobbed  hair  is  all  in  the  pic- 
ture. If  Millais  had  been  alive  he  would  have 
painted  her  for  a  Christmas  number!" 

"She's  working  well,  but  she  isn't  much  of  a  suc- 
cess so  far,"  said  Moreton,  filling  and  lighting  his 
pipe  with  meticulous  care.  "Pinelli  can't  make  her 
out — he  told  me  he  was  just  waiting." 

"The  patience  of  Pinelli  is  proverbial,"  said  Clive. 

"Yes,  he  never  tries  to  hustle  genius.  He  waits, 
trying  to  charm  it  out  of  its  shell." 

"And  if  the  shell  is  empty?"  inquired  Clive. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     151 

"Sydney's  shell  isn't  empty,"  Roma  pronounced 
with  quick  decision.  "It  may  not  contain  just  what 
you  expect — just  what  you  want — but  it  isn't  empty. 
Clive — I've  changed  my  mind.  I'm  coming  out  with 
you  in  the  gondola.  I'll  telephone  to  the  'people  of 
importance' !" 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"It's  awfully  good  of  you.  It  would  have  broken 
my  heart  to  spend  my  first  day  here  in  any  other 
way,"  Clive  assured  her. 

Moreton  looked  relieved.  "That's  all  right,"  he 
said.  "By  the  way,  Clive,  we're  making  plans  to 
go  to  the  Lido  as  soon  as  possible.  You  can  join 
us  there  directly  we  go." 

"That's  splendid,"  said  Clive.  <  "It'll  be  ripping 
there  this  summer.  Is  little  Miss  Flood  coming, 
too?" 

"Yes.  She's  to  have  those  two  rooms  in  the  tur- 
ret." Roma  glanced  at  Clive  as  she  made  the  state- 
ment. 

"She'll  be  roasted,"  he  said.  "You'd  better  give 
them  to  me.  I'm  a  salamander." 

"No;  I've  quite  decided  she's  to  have  them.  She 
can  work  there  undisturbed." 

"I  know  what  she  reminds  me  of!"  said  Clive  sud- 
denly; "I've  been  puzzling  all  the  time.  It's  the 
so-called  St.  Barbara  in  Boccaccino's  'Madonna  and 
Saints.'  I  wonder  if  she's  seen  it  yet?" 

"No,  she  hasn't.  The  Accademia's  been  closed 
since  the  War,"  replied  Roma.  "And,  Clive,  I  can't 
let  you  show  this  exaggerated  interest  in  little  Syd- 
ney Flood!  She's  my  own  private  possession,  and 
I  won't  have  her  head  turned." 

Both  men  laughed,  and  Roma  joined  for  an  in- 
stant in  their  merriment. 

"I  should  simply  love  to  turn  her  head,"  said 
Clive;  "I'm  sure  I  could  succeed  where  that  ex- 


152     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

cellent  young  Turner  man  failed.  I  feel  I've  got 
it  in  me." 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  try.  She's  far 
too  nice  for  you  to  philander  with."  Roma's  tone 
was  good-natured  but  decisive.  She  wasn't  going 
to  let  Clive  make  Sydney  miserable.  He  would  en- 
courage her  to  fall  in  love  with  him,  and  all  the  time 
he  would  not  have  the  slightest  intention  of  marry- 
ing her.  And  it  wasn't  fair,  with  a  girl  so  innocent 
of  the  rules  of  the  game.  She  looked  at  Clive 
severely. 

"I  shan't  let  you  come  to  'the  Lido  at  all  unless 
you  can  make  all  sorts  of  promises,"  she  told  him. 

Clive  laughed  outright. 

"Roma — you're  like  a  hen  with  one  chick!" 

"I'm  fond  of  Sydney,"  she  said,  "and  I'm  not  go- 
ing to  let  her  be  hurt.  She's  had  a  pretty  thin  time 
at  home,  you  know.  Lady  Westing  was  full  of  it 
the  other  day.  She  thinks  her  wonderfully  changed 
for  the  better  since  she  came  to  us." 

Moreton  was  a  little  astonished  at  the  trend  of 
the  conversation.  So  Roma  was  really  fond  of  Syd- 
ney. ...  It  wasn't  only  a  passing  caprice.  The 
girls  she  had  previously  singled  out  for  her  brief 
and  somewhat  fickle  friendship  had  never  stood  the 
strong  searchlight  of  her  slightly  cynical  criticism 
for  more  than  a  few  weeks.  Here  was  Sydney 
though,  still  holding  an  assured  position,  in  Roma's 
favor  and  in  the  household,  after  three  months'  so- 
journ. It  was,  he  concluded,  because  she  was  so 
tactful,  so  retiring.  She  never  got  in  Roma's  way. 
She  was  almost  like  a  little  daughter  of  the  house. 
He  hoped  that  Clive  would  take  to  her  too,  and  then 
they  could  all  four  settle  down  comfortably  at  the 
Lido  for  the  whole  summer.  It  just  depended  upon 
how  Roma  would  manage  her  team. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     153 

Clive's  coming  synchronized  with  a  slight  illness 
of  Moreton's — a  chill  which  he  declared  that  he 
had  caught  staying  out  too  late  on  the  lagoon  with 
Lord  Westing.  He  had  a  sharp  attack  of  fever  of 
the  kind  that  is  sufficiently  common  in  Italy  during 
the  summer,  and  especially  attacks  those  foreigners 
who  have  lived  long  under  her  hot  sun  and  bright 
sky.  The  attention  of  the  household  was  speedily 
concentrated  upon  him.  This  illness  made  them  re- 
shape their  plans,  and  arrange  to  go  to  the  Lido 
as  soon  as  ever  he  was  well  enough  to  be  moved. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  event  that  taught  Sydney  for 
the  first  time  that  her  position  in  the  household  was 
extremely  insecure.  Her  dream  of  being  in  a  sense 
an  attentive,  affectionate  daughter  to  Roma  faded 
abruptly.  She  seldom,  during  the  days  of  Moreton's 
illness,  saw  either  her  or  Clive,  except  at  meals.  Her 
timid  offer  of  help  was  declined  quickly,  though 
kindly,  by  Mrs.  Cochrane.  Sydney  was  more  skilled 
perhaps  than  any  of  them  in  the  art  of  nursing,  but 
no  one  seemed  to  remember  that.  Then,  when 
Moreton  was  better  and  able  to  leave  his  bed,  he 
was  moved  out  on  to  the  stone  loggia  beyond  the 
great  salone  on  the  first  floor.  Brown  awnings  were 
hung  over  it  to  shield  him  from  the  sun  as  he  lay 
there  on  a  couch.  Roma  and  Clive  often  read  aloud 
to  him.  Sydney  was  never  invited  to  join  them  there, 
nor  to  accompany  Clive  and  Roma  when  they  went 
out  for  an  hour  or  two  before  dinner  in  the  gondola. 
She  used  to  watch  them  start,  from  her  upper  win- 
dow. Clive's  resentment  of  her  presence  seemed, 
however,  to  have  vanished;  he  always  addressed  her 
in  a  friendly  way  when  he  spoke  to  her  at  meals.  Al- 
though he  slept  at  the  hotel,  he  came  round  to  the 
palace  every  morning  at  quite  an  early  hour.  Once 
he  had  even  spent  the  night  on  a  couch  in  Moreton's 


154     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

dressing-room,  so  that  he  might  be  at  hand  if  his 
cousin  got  worse  or  needed  anything  in  the  night. 

There  was  a  tendency,  Sydney  thought,  on  both 
his  part  and  Roma's,  to  exaggerate  their  preoccupa- 
tion with  Moreton.  .  .  . 

Moreton  was  better  and  could  receive  visitors. 
He  talked  of  coming  downstairs,  but  Roma  thought 
it  more  prudent  for  him  to  remain  where  he  was  for 
the  present.  The  doctor  had  told  her  that  his  heart 
was  not  very  strong,  and  she  must  see  that  he  didn't 
exert  himself  too  much.  Roma  was  disturbed;  she 
had  always  regarded  Moreton  as  a  giant  in  the  mat- 
ter of  strength  and  endurance.  She  communicated 
the  intelligence  to  Clive,  who  took  up  the  attitude 
that  the  doctor  was  exaggerating  his  condition. 
Probably  he  was  magnifying  some  passing  weakness 
into  the  symptoms  of  a  permanent  disease.  Roma 
shook  her  head. 

"I'm  not  so  sure,"  she  said;  "he's  a  queer  color 
at  times.  Haven't  you  noticed  it,  Clive?" 

"Oh,  he's  always  had  that  queer  dark  look,"  said 
Clive,  trying  to  reassure  her,  but  feeling  vaguely  un- 
easy himself.  Moreton  was  no  longer  very  young; 
he  was  nearing  sixty,  and  this  recent  apparently 
slight  illness  had  left  him  alarmingly  weak. 

They  went  down  into  the  garden.  The  morning 
was  still  in  its  first  delicious  freshness,  and  a  cool 
air  blew  off  the  Canal.  Roma  sat  under  the  shade  of 
the  silken  parasol.  "Read  to  me,  Clive,"  she  said. 
"And  let  it  be  Dante,  please.  I  am  in  the  mood  for 
Dante."  She  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  clasping  her 
bare  arms  behind  her  head. 

"May  Miss  Flood  come  down  and  listen,  too?" 
asked  Clive. 

"Yes,  of  course,  if  you  like  it.  She  won't  under- 
stand a  word."  Roma's  voice  was  careless. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     155 

"I'll  go  up  and  fetch  her,"  said  Clive.  He  ar- 
rived at  the  door  of  Sydney's  studio  a  little  out  of 
breath.  She  was  astonished  to  see  him  there  when 
she  opened  the  door  to  his  knock. 

"Roma  and  I  are  going  to  read  in.  the  garden. 
Won't  you  come,  too?  Roma  knows  I've  come  up 
to  fetch  you." 

He  looked  down  at  her  gravely.  She  did  not 
answer  immediately,  and  his,  "Do  come,"  held  a 
slightly  more  urgent  note. 

"I'll  come,"  said  Sydney;  "I  must  just  go  and  put 
these  brushes  away." 

She  wore  a  faded  blue  over-all  over  her  white 
dress,  and  there  were  little  smears  of  paint  on 
her  hands. 

"Don't  be  long!"  he  called  after  her  as  she 
vanished. 

Presently  Sydney  went  down  to  the  garden.  Roma 
held  out  a  slim  hand  to  her. 

"Dear  child,  you've  been  working  too  hard  lately, 
and  you've  been  too  much  alone.  But  we  couldn't 
help  ourselves.  Come  and  listen  to  Clive — he's 
going  to  read  the  Paradiso  to  me." 

She  pulled  a  chair  nearer  to  her,  and  made  Syd- 
ney sit  there  close  beside  her. 

Clive  sat  on  the  other  side  of  Roma.  If  he  raised 
his  eyes  he  could  see  both  their  faces  in  profile,  out- 
lined against  the  green  dusk  of  the  garden. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence  while  he  found  the 
place.  They  could  hear  the  water  lapping  almost 
fiercely  against  the  stone  steps  that  led  from  the 
garden  to  the  Canal,  with  a  greedy,  sucking  sound. 
The  gondola  tossed  heavily,  clumsily,  against  the  tall 
dark  blue  posts  to  which  it  was  moored.  A  passing 
motor-*boat  churned  the  water  to  increased  fury.  A 
little  breeze  stirred  from  the  Canal. 


156     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

Behind  Roma's  head  the  oleanders  lifted  their 
rose-pink  and  snow-white  clusters  against  the  dim 
green  of  palm  and  ilex. 

Then  Clive  began  to  read.  The  Canto  he  had 
chosen  was  that  in  which  Dante  questions  the  spirits 
whom  he  meets  first  in  Paradise  in  the  sphere  of  the 
Moon.  No— they  were  not  unhappy  or  dissatisfied, 
these  souls  who  had  failed  to  attain  to  the  higher 
circle  of  the  heavenly  glory  through  some  lack  of 
fidelity  imposed  upon  them  by  human  agency.  If 
they  had  failed  to  reach  that  highest  heaven  of  the 
blessed  they  were  still  perfectly  contented,  for  they 
were  accomplishing  the  Will  of  God  Who  had 
placed  them  where  they  were.  Clive  came  to  the 
famous  line — one  of  the  most  beautiful  lines  in  any 
language  in  all  the  world: 

E  la  sua  volontate  e  nostra  pace. 

E  la  sua  volontate  e  nostra  pace.  .  .  .  Sydney  fol- 
lowed the  Italian  imperfectly  and  with  difficulty,  but 
Clive  read  so  clearly  and  well  that  she  had  not  been 
entirely  without  understanding  of  the  meaning.  Now 
the  words  of  this  familiar  sentence  fell  upon  her  ear, 
and  it  seemed  to  come  like  some  beautiful  message 
explaining  those  impressions,  so  confused  and 
hitherto  inexplicable,  that  had  affected  her  ever 
since  she  came  to  Venice.  The  lamp  that  had 
burned  on  the  lagoon  before  the  little  shrine  of  the 
Madonna ;  the  wonderful  mystery  of  the  Holy  Sacri- 
fice as  she  had  seen  it  offered  with  such  royal  splen- 
dor on  Easter  Day  in  St.  Mark's,  the  singing,  the 
incense,  the  devout  kneeling  crowds;  the  sufferings 
of  the  Saints  depicted  in  so  many  of  the  old  pictures. 

She  leaned  forward  a  little,  wholly  self-forgetful, 
her  lips  just  parted,  her  eyes  shining  with  an  almost 
ecstatic  fervor.  She  had  something  of  the  look  of  a 
suddenly-awakened  child,  startled  but  not  frightened, 
because  in  the  act  of  awaking  its  attention  has 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     157 

been  arrested  by  the  sight  of  something  wholly  beau- 
tiful and  desirable. 

She  was  looking  towards  Clive,  but  she  did  not 
see  him;  he  and  Roma  might  both  have  been  a 
thousand  miles  away.  Nor  did  she  perceive  that 
Roma  was  watching  her  with  a  curious  close  atten- 
tion through  half-opened  eyes.  And  His  Will  is  our 
Peace.  .  .  .  She  had  never  known  that  peace,  yet 
sometimes  she  had  dimly  envisaged  it  when  she  had 
looked  at  those  pictured  saints,  smiling  and  serene 
amid  the  pangs  of  martyrdom.  Would  it  pass  her 
by  forever?  She  had  cut  herself  adrift  from  her 
old  life,  had  broken  her  former  chains,  but  while 
she  had  gained  freedom  and  leisure  she  had  not 
savored  peace.  Perhaps  God  kept  that  gift  in  His 
own  Hands,  for  those  who  submitted  like  loving 
children  to  His  Will.  You  could  not  find  it  of  your- 
self, so  her  thoughts  ran.  It  was  a  royal  gift,  and 
you  must  pray  for  it,  pray  with  that  strange  soul- 
surrender  that  marked  the  lives  of  the  martyrs, 
saints,  and  mystics  of  the  Church.  It  had  nothing 
to  do  with  earthly  happiness  or  prosperity —  those 
too  often  brought  with  them  their  own  torment  of 
unrest,  their  own  peculiar  fears,  their  own  suspense 
and  dread  of  loss,  because  they  were  temporal 
things,  marked  already  with  the  dust  of  death. 
Peace  .  .  .  yes,  but  you  must  pray  for  it,  suffer  for 
it,  before  you  could  receive  that  divine,  interior 
gift.  ... 

Clive  stopped  short  in  his  reading  and  said : 

"If  we  really  believed  that  too — " 

Roma  turned  to  him  sharply,  with  a  pene- 
trating look. 

"I  don't  suppose  Catholics  who  do  believe  it  are 
any  happier  than  we  are,"  she  said. 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  happiness,  it's  a  question 
of  peace,"  said  Clive,  and  he  continued: 


158     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

"Ella  e  quel  mare,  al  qual  tutto  si  move  do 
ch'ella  crea  e  che  natura  face.  . .  ." 

Suddenly  Sydney  rose  and  stole  away,  like  a  white 
ghost  moving  between  the  trees  and  flowering 
shrubs.  Roma  and  Clive  seemed  scarcely  to  notice 
her  going,  and  if  they  did  they  made  no  effort  to 
call  her  back. 

The  words  beat  in  her  ears;  she  could  not  listen 
to  anything  more.  She  wanted  to  be  alone,  quite 
alone.  Did  Clive  realize  the  profound  meaning  of 
that  one  line?  His  voice  was  beautiful,  he  had 
made  it  sound  like  music,  he  had  even  stopped  to 
comment  upon  it,  and  Roma's  answer  had  jarred  a 
little,  but  Sydney  did  not  believe  that  it  had  pierced 
his  heart  like  a  sword,  as  it  had  pierced  hers. 

Clive  finished  the  Canto  and  then  laid  down 
the  book. 

"My  reading  doesn't  seem  to  have  met  with  Miss 
Flood's  approval,"  he  said  almost  sulkily. 

"Why,  didn't  you  see  her  face?"  Roma  said, 
curiously. 

"No." 

"She  looked  quite  strange — almost  as  if  she  had 
seen  a  vision.  I  thought  myself  that  your  reading 
had  rather  upset  her.  She  is  such  an  odd  child." 

"She's  very  silent,"  he  said.  "I  wish  she  would 
talk  to  me  sometimes — I  think  she  might  interest 
me.  She's  not  like  other  people.  But  she's  hope- 
lessly inarticulate." 

Although  she  spoke  so  little  and  so  seldom,  he 
was  convinced  that  she  was  in  reality  neither  dull 
nor  stupid.  He  could  not  quite  tell  why  she  inter- 
ested him  so  profoundly.  Something  in  her  eyes 
perhaps  that  belied  that  dull,  tongue-tied  attitude 
of  hers. 

"Oh,  I  understand  her,"  said  Roma;  "you  see,  I 
know  her  mother." 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     159 

"But  Lady  Wanley's  so  different  from  all  ac- 
counts. Darrington  said  she  was  such  a  radiant 
charming  creature !" 

"In  all  families  there's  a  spoilt  child  and  a  snubbed 
child,"  said  Roma.  "Sydney  happens  to  have  been 
the  snubbed  child." 

Clive  took  up  the  Paradiso  and  resumed  his  read- 
ing, without  further  comment.  But  he  was  sorry 
that  Sydney  was  no  longer  there  to  listen  to  him. 
He  liked  the  gentle  stimulus  of  her  presence.  Very 
soon,  however,  Roma  said: 

"Don't  read  any  more,  Clive.  You're  getting 
hoarse." 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  Villa  Roma  was  a  banal,  modern  construc- 
tion, turreted,  and  somewhat  florid  in  its 
exterior  decoration,  but  it  was  set  rather  beautifully 
in  a  charming  shady  garden  of  palms  and  pines  with 
the  inevitable  bushes  of  flaming  oleander,  whose 
bright  blossoms  gladden  most  Italian  gardens  from 
June  till  October.  It  stood  a  little  back  from  the 
shores  of  the  Adriatic,  but  from  the  upper  windows 
there  was  a  glorious  view  of  that  superb  Gulf  with 
the  faint  gray  and  violet  silhouette  of  the  Alps  rising 
in  far-off  splendor  against  the  sky. 

Even  from  the  garden  you  could  catch  glimpses 
of  shining  lapis-colored  water  between  the  dark  lus- 
trous boughs  of  the  pines.  The  blue  sky  and 
sea,  the  silver  flash  of  a  sea-gull,  the  wide  strip  of 
golden  sands,  the  flaming  orange  and  red  of  the 
sails,  poised  like  beautiful  butterflies  upon  that  azure 
shield,  could  still  make  Sydney  understand  why  that 
long  strip  of  island  that  protects  Venice  from  the 
sea  has  inspired  love  in  the  hearts  of  generations  of 
poets.  Its  beauty  is  great  enough  to  triumph  over 
the  vulgarity  and  ugliness  imposed  upon  it  when  it 
became  a  bathing  and  health  resort  for  the  whole 
of  Italy. 

The  brilliant  and  pure  color  of  it  all,  poured 
lavishly  as  if  from  some  giant  palette,  astonished 
Sydney.  She  loved  it  in  all  its  moods.  Her  two 
rooms  in  the  turret  might  be  hot,  but  they  gave  her 
an  uninterrupted  view  of  the  sea  on  the  one  side,  and 
of  Venice  on  the  other,  with  the  wide,  pale  waters  of 

160 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     161 

the  lagoon  lying  between  her  and  that  faery  city  of 
towers  and  spires.  The  jade-green  of  the  lagoon 
at  sunset  changing  so  rapidly  to  rose  and  gold;  its 
silver  pallor,  frail,  insubstantial,  when  the  morn- 
ing mists  clung  about  it  and  the  shadows  in  it 
were  of  velvet  darkness;  the  strong  fierce  blue 
of  it  in  the  blaze  of  noon — all  these  moods  and 
aspects  became  familiar  to  her.  Yet  it  never 
looked  twice  the  same,  and  in  its  milk-white  pal- 
lor at  dawn  it  seldom  failed  to  startle  her  with  a 
sense  of  mystery  and  unreality,  while  the  colored 
sails  emerging  from  the  mists  seemed  to  be- 
long to  phantom  vessels  voyaging  towards  some  un- 
known bourne. 

Roma  had  contented  herself  with  making  the 
house  "comfortable,"  as  she  called  it.  She  acknowl- 
edged its  banality,  but  said  it  was  quite  useless  to 
try  to  hide  it.  Antiques  were  for  the  old  Venetian 
palace,  not  for  a  modern  villa  of  pink  stucco. 
"Chintz  for  villas,"  she  said,  "and  large  easy  chairs 
and  Chesterfields."  She  had  procured  the  said 
chintzes  from  England,  and  they  were  of  bewilder- 
ing Futurist  design  and  coloring.  Moreton  called 
them  "restless,"  and  hated  them  or  rather  said  that 
he  did.  But  the  effect  was  wonderfully  good,  if  a 
little  startling.  Clive  held  his  peace  on  the  subject, 
as  he  generally  did  when  the  husband  and  wife  were 
not  in  complete  accord. 

Roma  at  the  Lido  was  a  changed  being.  She  was 
almost  amphibious,  bathing  for  long  hours  in  the 
sea,  and  lying  about  on  the  strip  of  sand  in  a  bril- 
liant rose-pink  bath-gown,  with  a  silken  cap  to  match 
on  her  head.  Her  neck  and  arms  were  delicately 
browned  by  the  sun;  she  looked  absolutely  Italian. 
Clive,  a  strong  and  practiced  swimmer,  always  ac- 
companied her.  Moreton  watched  them  from  the 
shore  with  affectionate  admiration  and  pride.  He 


162     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

often  carried  a  little  basket  of  fruit  for  them — • 
peaches  and  figs  and  plums. 

Sydney  did  not  bathe.  She  had  never  learned  to 
swim  and  though  Clive  good-naturedly  offered  to 
teach  her,  she  felt  shy  of  making  the  attempt. 
Moreton  used  to  call  her  down  sometimes  and  say: 

"Come  and  take  half  an  hour's  recreation,  Miss 
Flood,  and  watch  the  bathers." 

One  morning  he  summoned  her  in  this  way,  and 
she  came  down  wearing  a  childish  dress  of  white 
muslin  with  short  sleeves  and  cut  low  at  the  throat. 
It  was  a  dress  such  as  many  women  were  wearing 
that  summer  and  it  suited  Sydney,  perhaps,  better 
than  it  did  most  of  them.  The  soft  blue  sash  knotted 
at  the  side  increased  her  childish  appearance.  The 
blond  hair  was  almost  hidden  beneath  a  large  white 
muslin  hat  decorated  with  a  single  unconvincing  rose 
of  pale  blue  silk. 

Moreton  was  in  the  drawing-room  when  she  joined 
him,  restlessly  engaged  in  moving  his  wife's 
bibelots  to  a  more  symmetrical  position  on  the  tables 
and  cabinets.  Sometimes,  too,  he  would  turn  sud- 
denly to  the  wall  and  straighten  a  picture. 

"Funny  how  servants  in  all  countries  always  leave 
pictures  crooked,"  he  said  to  Sydney.  "Do  you  like 
all  this  color?  I'm  never  sure  if  I  hate  it  or  not — to 
me  it's  just  madness.  Roma  ought  to  have  had  only 
cool  restful  grays  and  greens  in  these  rooms,  with  all 
that  blue  and  gold  and  emerald  and  rose-pink  out- 
side !"  He  glanced  around  him  with  a  discontent 
not  wholly  unmingled  with  a  certain  admiration  for 
Roma's  courage  in  decorating  her  roon\  like  that. 
From  a  psychological  standpoint  it  signified  an  act 
of  defiance,  as  he  proceeded  to  explain  to  Sydney. 
"You  women  have  been  fed  up  with  the  drab  ugly 
side  of  life — you've  seen  nothing  else  all  these  years 
of  the  War — and  you're  sick  of  the  hideousness,  the 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     163 

confusion,  the  waste  of  all  that's  precious  and  beauti- 
ful. So  you  go  to  the  opposite  extreme  and  try  to 
cram  your  lives  with  color  and  movement.  All  this 
ridiculous  dancing  and  swimming!"  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders.  "Why  can't  you  be  quiet  and  repose- 
ful like  your  grandmothers?" 

He  shook  his  head,  and  then  led  the  way  into  the 
garden.  Sydney  followed  him  meekly.  He  seemed 
to  be  always  trying  to  account  for  Roma's  whims 
and  vagaries,  to  bring  her  into  line  with  other 
women  and  show  that  she  was  the  perfectly  normal 
product  of  her  time  and  generation.  Sydney  won- 
dered sometimes  if  he  ever  deceived  himself.  To 
her,  Roma  always  seemed  like  some  brilliant  exotic 
creature  that  had  strayed  accidentally  into  human 
spheres,  never  quite  at  home  there  despite  an  ex- 
terior adoption  of  their  ways  and  customs.  She  was, 
in  fact,  just  Roma,  never  to  be  measured  by  ordinary 
standards.  And  for  that  very  reason  the  love  that 
she  so  lightly  compelled  must  always  be  a  wistful 
thing,  never  hoping  for  adequate  or  equal  response. 

"No,  I  don't  bathe — I'm  supposed  to  have  a  weak 
heart,  you  know,"  Moreton  told  Sydney,  as  they 
strolled  shorewards  under  the  fierce  rays  of  that 
almost  tropical  sun.  "But  I  like  to  watch  Roma  and 
Clive — they  are  so  wonderful — you'd  say  it  came 
naturally  to  them  to  swim." 

But  it  was  not  often  that  even  Moreton  remem- 
bered her  and  called  her  down  from  her  turret  room. 
The  household  revolved  around  Roma.  She  wasn't 
selfish;  apparently  she  exacted  nothing,  and  made 
few  demands.  But  a  spontaneous  offering  of  time 
and  attention  on  the  part  of  every  one  seemed  to  be 
the  unwritten  rule  of  the  house.  Moreton  and  Clive 
seemed  to  live  only  to  do  her  bidding,  to  anticipate 
her  wishes.  The  rivalry  between  the  two  men  was 
of  the  pleasantest  description,  and  never  clashed. 


i64     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

Clive's  devotion  to  husband  and  wife  was  complete. 
His  place  in  the  house  was  rather  that  of  a  cherished 
younger  brother.  He  was  nearly  always  gay  and 
in  good  spirits,  and  he  was  kind  to  Sydney  when  he 
remembered  to  notice  her  at  all.  They  never  made 
her  feel  that  she  was  in  the  way,  but  sometimes  she 
found  herself  wishing  that  they  would  leave  her  to 
a  less  formidable  solitude.  Her  very  presence  in 
that  eyrie  of  hers  was  so  often  quite  forgotten.  .  .  . 

She  spent  hours  looking  over  the  sea,  sometimes 
making  rapid  sketches  of  those  effects  of  color,  that 
wide  laughing  space  of  blue  with  the  golden  and 
orange  and  pearl-color  of  the  sails  painted  against 
it,  the  dim  mountains  to  the  North  looking  like 
clouds,  and  scarcely  more  substantial  than  clouds 
against  the  sky;  the  sea-gulls  flashing  and  dipping 
like  silver  scimitars.  She  could  see  the  dark  heads 
of  the  swimmers,  bobbing  up  and  down  in  that  silken 
expanse  of  water.  It  was  a  world  of  blue  and  gold, 
touched  to  a  note  of  more  vivid  color  by  those  idle 
motionless  sails. 

Sometimes  she  saw  Clive  and  Roma  emerge  from 
the  villa  and  stroll  shorewards  together  for  the 
morning  bathe,  their  tall  white-clad  figures  moving 
rhythmically  side  by  side.  Clive's  beauty  of  form 
and  face,  the  considered  athletic  grace  of  his  move- 
ments, were  as  notable  as  Roma's  in  their  own  way. 
He  attracted  Sydney  as  a  very  perfect  Greek  statue 
might  have  done. 

Sometimes  they  would  vary  the  program  by  start- 
ing off  quite  early  for  an  expedition  in  the  motor- 
boat,  bound  for  Chioggia  or  one  of  the  many  other 
islands,  or  perhaps  only  intending  to  go  to  Venice 
for  the  day.  Moreton  generally  accompanied  them 
then,  his  tall  ungainly  figure  making  a  notable  con- 
trast to  Clive's  easy  grace.  Roma  would  walk  be- 
tween them  down  to  the  landing-place  on  the  lagoon 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     165 

side  of  the  island.  When  their  voices  and  laughter 
had  died  away  down  the  wide  road  with  its  avenue 
of  plane-trees,  Sydney  used  to  sit  by  her  bedroom 
window  and  look  towards  Venice,  outlined  in  mist- 
color  across  the  breadth  of  the  lagoon,  that  was 
polished  and  shining  as  a  shield  on  those  divine 
summer  mornings.  Its  smooth  surface  was  broken 
by  the  rows  of  dark  staves  that  pricked  the  course 
of  the  steamers  to  the  Lido  or  to  the  other  islands. 
Motor-boats  rushed  rapidly  and  noisily  to  their  des- 
tination, churning  the  water  till  it  became  agitated 
as  if  a  sudden  storm  had  swept  over  it.  Gondolas 
passed  more  solemnly,  deeply  black  against  the  pal- 
lor of  the  lagoon;  to  Sydney  they  seemed  like  the 
ferry-boats  that  journeyed  across  the  Styx.  Crowded 
steamers  disgorged  their  human  freight  at  the  jetty, 
just  visible  through  a  break  in  the  trees.  Sydney 
watched  this  life  of  color  and  movement,  but  felt 
that  she  had  no  part  in  it  except  to  endeavor  to  cap- 
ture something  of  its  beauty  with  her  brush.  Roma, 
ten  years  older  than  herself,  could  live  freely  in  it, 
enjoying  every  hour  of  the  day,  surrounded  by  ad- 
miration and  attention  that  never  failed.  Day  after 
day  people  came  out  to  the  villa  to  luncheon  and  tea, 
to  talk  learnedly  with  Moreton  about  pictures,  and 
to  gaze  at  his  exquisite  wife.  But  Sydney  was  almost 
as  solitary  as  she  had  been  in  London,  and  she  felt 
her  solitude  more  sharply  than  she  had  done  even  in 
Venice.  There  was  also  much  less  to  amuse  her  at 
the  Lido.  She  missed  the  pictures  and  churches; 
she  missed  something  of  that  sober  atmosphere 
which  belongs  to  Venice.  The  Lido  was  a  holiday 
place — a  place  for  idlers  and  idling. 

Very  few  of  Roma's  many  visitors  noticed  her.  If 
an  English  ship  had  come  in,  there  was  sometimes  a 
sprinkling  of  naval  officers,  and  the  younger  ones 
drifted  towards  Sydney,  as  to  something  at  once 


166      THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

young  and  English  in  a  crowd  that  consisted  largely 
of  foreigners.  Perhaps  there  would  be  a  friend  of 
Jack's  among  them  to  accost  her  with  friendly 
eagerness.  And  sometimes  an  acquaintance  of  her 
mother's  would  recognize  her  and  say:  "Why,  Miss 
Flood !  Are  you  spending  the  summer  here  ?  What 
news  of  Lady  Wanley?"  It  was  humiliating  to  have 
to  confess  that  she  knew  so  little  of  Moira's  doings, 
but  she  served  up  all  that  Lady  Westing  had  told 
her,  hoping  that  the  paucity  of  the  information 
would  not  strike  her  interlocutor. 

But  all  through  those  summer  weeks  Sydney  felt 
more  strongly  even  than  she  had  done  in  Venice, 
that  there  must  be  something — something  perhaps 
behind  all  this  and  apart  from  it,  which,  if  she  could 
only  find  it,  would  be  capable  of  satisfying  her  own 
great,  if  imperfectly  formulated,  need.  Something 
that  would  appease  the  hunger  that  seemed  to  belong 
to  her  soul  more  than  to  her  heart.  It  wasn't  love 
that  she  desired,  she  used  to  tell  herself,  for  that  had 
been  offered  to  her  and  she  had  rejected  it;  she  could 
have  fulfilled,  had  she  so  wished,  her  woman's  des- 
tiny of  wife  and  perhaps  mother.  It  hadn't  passed 
her  by  altogether,  as  it  did  so  many  women.  And  it 
wasn't  art,  because  now  for  the  first  time  in  her  life 
she  had  abundant  leisure  in  which  to  work,  among 
the  most  perfect  surroundings  in  the  world  as  the 
giants  of  bygone  days  could  testify  by  their  own 
achievement.  And  while  she  was  working  close, 
absorbed,  almost  narrow  in  her  concentration,  the 
hunger  was  lulled,  just  as  if  she  had  drunk  some 
powerful  anodyne  that  soothed  while  it  could  not 
cure.  And  then,  quite  suddenly,  it  would  come  back 
to  her,  this  urgent  cry  and  appeal  of  the  soul.  Peo- 
ple, religious  people,  would  tell  you  it  was  the  soul's 
need  of  God  that  caused  this  terrible  unsatisfied 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     167 

spiritual  hunger.  Those  who  were  perfectly  satis- 
fied with  all  this  beautiful  world  could  offer  them, 
never,  perhaps,  experienced  that  fierce  unrest. 

Sydney  gazed  across  at  Venice,  and  the  soaring 
towers  looked  transparent  things,  as  if  blown  out  of 
mist,  intangible,  impalpable.  They  seemed  to  spring 
up  sheer  from  the  lagoon  like  slender  flowers  lifted 
towards  the  sky.  St.  Giorgio  with  its  rosy  grace,  the 
great  Campanile  of  St.  Mark's,  the  leaning  towers 
of  the  Frari  and  St.  Zaccaria.  Something  in  the 
sight  of  those  innumerable,  soaring  towers  and 
domes  had  a  strange  fascination  for  her.  Treasure 
given  to  God.  .  .  .  The  legacy  of  those  splendid 
days  when  men  devoted  their  art,  their  industry, 
their  knowledge  to  the  service  of  God.  She  thought 
of  Titian's  Madonna  uplifted  on  a  golden  cloud  in 
the  Frari,  with  kneeling  saints  and  angels  watching 
her  Assumption.  She  saw  the  upturned  face  of  the 
boy  martyr,  St.  Placid,  in  Tintoretto's  Coronation, 
with  the  young,  fair,  calm  face  and  the  cruel  nail 
piercing  his  forehead — -the  first  of  the  sons  of  St. 
Benedict  to  receive  the  crown  of  martyrdom.  Did  not 
these  pictures  give  witness  alike  of  the  times  when 
men  worked  and  suffered  and  died  for  the  Church 
with  a  loyalty  that  no  human  institution  could  ever 
evoke,  as  well  as  of  those  later  days  when  men 
spilled  talent  and  fortune  recklessly  in  her  service? 
People  worked  and  suffered  still,  but  how  many 
offered  their  work  and  sufferings  to  God?  In  these 
moods  the  paltriness  of  her  own  achievement  sick- 
ened her.  To  express  devotion  you  must  possess  it. 
Sydney  realized  the  lack  in  herself  of  those  essen- 
tial spiritual  qualities  which  alone  can  make  effort 
worth  while.  But  she  became  more  and  more  con- 
vinced that  they  were  obtainable,  and  that  she  had 
come  abroad  perhaps  to  obtain  them.  And  her 


1 68     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

thoughts  went  back  to  the  light  that  burned  before 
the  shrine  on  the  lagoon — a  light  that  beckoned 
to  her  still  across  gray  waters.  .  .  . 

There  was  still  something  half-superstitious  in 
her  belief  that  this  light,  encountered,  as  it  were, 
upon  the  very  threshold  of  her  new  life,  had  held  a 
profound  spiritual  significance,  and  bore  a  message 
that  some  day  would  reveal  itself,  leading  her  per- 
haps into  those  paths  of  renunciation  and  self- 
immolation  wherein  the  Saints  had  found  inexpres- 
sible mystical  joys  amid  their  sufferings. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

CLIVE  went  over  to  Trieste  for  a  week  with  a 
party  of  Italian  friends  early  in  August,  and 
it  was  during  his  absence  that  Roma  proposed  to 
Sydney  that  she  should  begin  the  long-contemplated 
portrait  of  herself. 

Sydney  had  long  ago  decided  to  paint  Roma  with 
a  background  of  Venetian  seascape  in  cool  dim  tones. 
The  ilex  trees  of  the  garden,  with  the  break  in  them 
that  revealed  in  the  distance  the  mist-colored  towers 
and  domes  rising  out  of  the  lagoon  under  a  sky  of 
empty  pallor,  gave  her  exactly  the  background  that 
she  needed,  soft,  low  in  tone,  as  in  some  cinque- 
cento  picture.  Roma  was  an  excellent  model,  for  she 
had  been  painted  by  nearly  all  the  "big"  men  of  the 
day.  She  sat  to  Sydney  good-naturedly  enough,  and 
seemed  eager  to  be  painted  by  her.  The  portrait 
would  certainly  be  individual  and  charming.  More- 
ton,  who  was  utterly  opposed  to  the  scheme,  charac- 
terizing it  as  waste  of  time,  was  forced  to  bow  in  the 
end  to  Roma's  will. 

"I  can  always  buy  it»and  then  destroy  it,"  he  said, 
comforting  himself  with  this  reflection,  while  Sydney 
cherished  flattering  and  romantic  visions  of  the  por- 
trait's being  exhibited  in  the  great  European  gal- 
leries, entitled:  Roma,  Wife  of  Moreton  Cochrane. 

Roma  came  over  to  the  easel  and  looked  at  the 
first  sketch,  roughly  done  in  charcoal. 

"You  know,  don't  you? — that  you'll  stand  or  fall 
by  this  picture  in  Moreton's  estimation?"  she  said, 
putting  her  hand  lightly  on  the  girl's  thin  shoulder. 

"Yes,"  said  Sydney. 

169 


170     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

She  worked  feverishly.  She  wanted  not  to  satisfy 
Moreton,  but  to  please  Roma.  Those  hours  they 
spent  together  in  her  studio  were  almost  the  happiest 
she  had  ever  known.  Roma  talked  to  her,  and  Syd- 
ney listened.  There  was  always  charm  in  what  she 
said — a  certain  individuality  of  vision,  a  freshness 
of  outlook.  She  read  a  great  deal,  generally  with 
Clive,  an,d  was  fond  of  talking  about  the  books 
she  read. 

"I  should  never  be  surprised  if  you  became  a 
Roman  Catholic.  It  seems  to  have  a  special  attrac- 
tion for  people  gifted  with  the  artistic  tempera- 
ment," she  said  to  Sydney  one  day  when  she 
was  at  work. 

It  was  as  if  some  indefinable  process  of  thought- 
transference,  combined  with  a  subtle  sympathy,  had 
made  her  aware  of  the  trend  of  Sydney's 
thoughts. 

Sydney  answered  gravely: 

"Since  1  came  to  Italy  I've  sometimes  thought  I 
should  like  to  be  one." 

"I'm  sure  you  have.  Many  of  us  go  through  that 
phase.  Even  Clive — but  he  was  never  really  serious. 
He  likes  to  go  to  Mass  though — especially  he  likes 
'functions'.  ...  I  don't  think  myself  he'll  ever 
change  now.  Still,  there's  no  knowing.  He  always 
gets  a  bad  attack  of  it  when  he  reads  'The  Hound 
of  Heaven.'  " 

"I've  been  to  Mass  often  in  Venice,"  Sydney  con- 
fessed, a  trifle  reluctantly.  "I  liked  it,  too.  I 
wanted  to  learn  more- — to  know  more." 

She  stopped  suddenly,  looking  confused.  She 
hadn't  really  intended  to  tell  Roma. 

"Moreton  is  full  of  prejudices,"  continued  Mrs. 
Cochrane.  "I  think  that  had  something  to  do  with 
Clive's  not  becoming  a  Catholic.  You  see,  they're 
so  like  father  and  son — he  wouldn't  do  anything  to 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     171 

pain  him  for  the  world.  There's  nothing  so  nice 
about  Clive  as  his  never-failing  consideration 
for  Moreton." 

Sydney  put  down  her  brushes  and  looked  rather 
wistfully  seawards.  There  had  been  rain  that  morn- 
ing, and  the  sky  was  covered  with  clouds.  The  sea 
was  flat  and  gray,  and  very  still  under  that  cloud- 
canopy.  She  wondered  if  Clive  had  ever  known, 
ever  endured,  that  strange  spiritual  unrest  which 
had  been  her  portion  since  she  came  to  Venice.  Soli- 
tude had  made  her  regard  it  almost  morbidly,  as 
something  that  had  taken  hold  of  her  very  life  and 
would  not  leave  her.  She  wished  that  she  could  find 
courage  to  question  Clive  on  the  subject  when  he 
came  back. 

"And  you — "  she  turned  suddenly  to  Roma,  who 
was  watching  her  covertly,  "you've  never  wanted  it 
for  yourself?" 

"Oh,  no — I'm  an  absolute  pagan,  and  then  I 
like  to  be  perfectly  free.  I  don't  belong  to  any 
church — Catholic  or  Protestant.  And  in  any  case 
it  would  be  useless — it  would  be  the  one  thing  poor 
Moreton  could  never  bear." 

"One  can  never  get  away  from  it  here,"  said  Syd- 
ney; "those  churches  and  shrines  and  pictures  of  Our 
Lady  and  the  Saints.  Even  on  the  lagoon  that  night 
— do  you  remember?  The  little  shrine  of  the  Ma- 
donna holding  the  Child  in  her  arms,  and  the 
light  burning  in  front  of  it.  So  lonely  and 
so — impressive !" 

Her  eyes  shone.  She  had,  Roma  thought,  that 
look  almost  of  ecstasy  that  had  been  visible  on  her 
face  during  Clive's  reading  of  the  Paradiso. 

"Ah,  my  dear — you're  doomed !"  she  said,  but  her 
tone  was  very  tender.  "I  almost  envy  you  because 
you're  able  to  feel  like  that  about  it  all.  I  can 
picture  you  going  to  confession  with  the  tale  of  your 


172     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

innocent  little  sins — almost  like  a  nun  in  her  cloister. 
I  can  almost  picture  you  as  a  nun,  Sydney  I" 

There  was  a  half-wistful  mockery  in  her  tone. 
But  she  rose  and  came  across  the  room  and  put  her 
arms  round  Sydney,  and  kissed  her. 

"You've  done  enough  for  to-day.  You  let  things 
eat  you  up,  Sydney  .  .  .  you're  looking  quite 
exhausted." 

Roma  had  never  seemed  so  exquisite  and  so 
motherly  to  Sydney  as  she  did  at  that  moment.  She 
aroused  within  her  a  feeling  akin  to  adoration.  It 
recovered  for  Sydney  the  first  beautiful  days  of  their 
swift  friendship. 

"Oh,  I'm  not  really  tired — I  feel  as  if  I  could  go 
on  for  hours  to-day,"  she  assured  Roma,  eagerly. 

Roma  stood  looking  at  the  picture. 

"It's  really  very  good — -I'd  no  idea  you  had  it  in 
you  to  paint  like  that,"  she  said,  surveying  it  criti- 
cally. "Moreton  must  see  it  soon." 

"Oh  no — not  yet!  He  mustn't  see  it  till  it's 
done."  Sydney  spoke  almost  with  passion. 

"But  my  dear  child,  why  not?" 

"I  feel  as  if  I  should  never  finish  it  if  he  saw  it 
now.  I  know  he  won't  care  for  it." 

Roma  secretly  endorsed  this  opinion.  Perhaps 
Sydney  was  right.  She  must  be  given  a  free  hand. 
She  mustn't  be  cramped  with  criticism  and  advice 
while  the  work  was  in  progress.  It  might,  as  she 
suggested,  prevent  her  from  finishing  it.  Roma  was 
anxious  that  the  portrait  should  be  a  success.  It 
would  be  a  great  help  to  Sydney  if  it  could  be  ex- 
hibited. She  wanted  her  to  have  a  future — a  great 
future.  That  shy,  unexpressed  worship  of  herself 
touched  her.  She  thought  remorsefully  that  she  had 
left  her  too  much  alone,  but  she  hadn't  wanted  her 
to  be  thrown  a  great  deal  with  Clive.  She  had  a  fear 
that  Clive  might  make  her  unhappy.  .  .  . 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     173 

Even  when  Clive  returned,  Roma  continued  the 
sittings.  The  portrait  was  very  nearly  finished  when 
Moreton  suddenly  appeared  in  Sydney's  studio  one 
afternoon  just  before  tea.  Some  people  had  arrived, 
and  Roma  and  Clive  were  in  the  garden  entertain- 
ing them. 

Sydney  was  taken  by  surprise ;  Moreton  had  never 
before  paid  her  an  unexpected  visit  in  this  way.  He 
began  abruptly : 

"Roma  says  your  portrait  of  her  is  nearly  finished. 
I  want  to  look  at  it." 

Sydney  glanced  up  at  Moreton  with  something  of 
fear  in  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  but  it  isn't  quite  ready  for  you  to  see," 
she  objected. 

"Nonsense!"  said  Moreton  gruffly.  "Let  me 
look  at  it." 

Sydney  brought  out  the  canvas,  reluctantly  but 
submissively.  It  was  so  nearly  finished  that  More- 
ton's  criticism  couldn't  hurt,  one  way  or  the  other. 
Still,  she  felt  half  afraid  of  what  he  might  say. 

He  stood  there,  tall,  ungainly,  gazing  at  it,  his 
face  all  crumpled  up  with  thought. 

"Your  background  is  false,  Miss  Flood.  It's 
imitative — derivative — you  might  have  copied  it 
from  a  detail  of  Tintoretto's  and  copied  it  badly, 
too !  People  will  say  that  you  have  copied  it.  It 
isn't  suited  to  a  modern  subject — it  makes  Roma 
look  ridiculous."  He  fretted  and  fumed,  scarcely 
knowing  what  he  was  saying. 

Sydney  was  quietly  defiant. 

"It  suits  Roma,"  she  maintained,  obstinately. 
"And  Roma  likes  it." 

"Oh,  my  dear  child,  do  you  think  Roma  always 
likes  what  she  praises?  She  hates  hurting  people's 
feelings !  But  if  that's  your  idea  of  painting  a  por- 
trait, continuez  ton  jours!  Only,  you  must  be  pre- 


174     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

pared  for  the  kind  of  criticism  I've  given  you,  less 
leniently  expressed." 

Sydney  was  silent  She  fidgeted  nervously  with 
her  brushes,  and  wished  that  Moreton  would  take  it 
into  his  head  to  depart.  Already  he  had  spoilt  her 
pleasure,  even  if  ever  so  slightly,  in  her  work,  and 
chilled  her  enthusiasm  which  had  grown  under 
Roma's  approbation.  And  was  that  true  about 
Roma  praising  where  she  didn't  really  like?  The 
suggestion  wounded  her.  Perhaps  Roma  had  ex- 
pressed some  adverse  opinion  to  Moreton,  and  he 
wanted  to  give  her  a  hint  that  his  wife  was  less 
pleased  with  the  portrait  than  she  seemed. 

"You'll  never  learn  at  this  rate,"  Moreton  said 
almost  bitterly.  His  dark  fierce  eyes  swept  her  face. 
It  was  absurd  of  this  child  to  set  her  opinion  against 
his,  to  stick  to  her  guns  in  this  way.  "That  arm's 
out  of  drawing — it  isn't  sufficiently  fore-shortened. 
You'd  much  better  have  attempted  only  a  head. 
You're  not  up  to  a  full-length  portrait  yet.  In  fact, 
I'm  not  sure  that  you  hadn't  better  leave  portraits 
alone  altogether.  Landscape  is  your  forte,  and  you 
would  have  spent  your  time  much  better  studying 
and  sketching  Venice." 

He  hunched  his  high  narrow  shoulders  and  went 
away.  A  few  minutes  later  she  could  hear  his  mirth- 
less rather  shrilljaugh  mingling  with  the  other  voices 
and  laughter  in  the  garden.  It  was  time  to  dress 
and  go  down  to  tea.  Roma  had  told  her  that  some 
English  people  were  coming.  They  were  passing 
through  Venice  on  their  return  from  an  important 
mission  in  the  Near  East. 

Sydney  put  on  a  new  white  dress  that  fell  in  simple 
straight  lines.  While  she  was  dressing,  she  thought 
of  all  that  Moreton  had  said.  It  was  the  first  time 
that  she  had  ever  felt  his  criticism  to  be  narrow  and 
intolerant.  She  let  these  thoughts  take  actual  form 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     175 

in  her  mind,  and  then  was  aghast  to  feel  that  she 
was  wanting  in  loyalty  to  the  very  person  who  had 
first  held  out  a  helping  hand  to  her.  But  for  him 
she  might  have  been  living  now  in  London,  as  Dun- 
can's wife;  her  pencils  and  brushes  relegated  for- 
ever to  a  decent  obscurity,  and  her  high  hopes 
and  dreams  diminishing  every  day.  .  .  .  She  owed 
Moreton  so  much  that  if  she  were  really  to  lose 
faith  in  his  wisdom,  her  position  in  his  house  would 
surely  become  impossible.  She  must  work  as  he 
wished,  bow  to  his  judgment,  listen  meekly  to  his 
advice,  or  she  must  go  and  work  independently  of 
him,  and  free  herself  from  the  bondage  he  tried  to 
impose  upon  her.  The  little  incident  had  opened  her 
eyes.  She  knew  that  in  this  portrait  she  had  brought 
out  all  that  was  most  definitely  Italian  in  Roma's 
face.  Roma  was  the  child  of  mixed  races,  she  had 
French  and  Italian  blood  as  well  as  English  in  her 
veins.  And  like  all  the  children  of  mixed  nationality 
she  had  some  of  the  traits  of  each  race  in  her,  empha- 
sized and  even  exaggerated.  She  .had  the  subtle, 
natural  intelligence  of  the  Italian,  and  to  this  had 
been  added  the  more  careful  and  thorough  educa- 
tion that  England  gives  to  her  daughters.  Her 
beauty  was  a  thing  preeminently  of  the  South,  but 
she  had  the  physical  strength  and  endurance  that 
belong  to  the  North  and  something,  too,  of  its  in- 
herent coldness  and  prudence.  It  was  perhaps  this 
mixture  in  her  of  both  North  and  South  that  made 
Roma  so  attractive  as  well  as  beautiful.  And  in  her 
portrait  Sydney  had  made  known  this  ambiguous 
racial  complexity.  .  .  .  Perhaps  that  was  what 
Moreton  had  perceived  and  disliked  in  it. 

Sydney  said  to  herself  doggedly:  "I  could  work 
much  better  alone.  I  should  trust  myself  more.  I 
should  make  big  mistakes,  but  at  least  I  should 
learn."  She  needed  a  freer  air.  But  this  time, 


176     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

whether  she  went  or  stayed,  she  was  going  to  do 
exactly  as  she  pleased,  regardless  of  Moreton. 

Roma  did  not  allude  to  the  episode.  Perhaps 
Moreton  had  not  told  her  of  his  stormy  little  visit 
that  had  left  Sydney  so  limp  and  exhausted,  yet  so 
almost  heroically  obstinate.  Roma  was  very  busy 
socially  just  then.  Another  English  ship  had  come 
in,  and  she  entertained  the  officers  to  tea  and  dinner. 
And  after  dinner  there  was  generally  bridge  till  a 
late  hour.  Sometimes  Sydney  had  to  stay  up  to  fill  a 
gap.  She  was  always  glad  when  Clive  was  her  part- 
ner, he  was  invariably  indulgent  and  kind  and 
laughed  at  her  mistakes.  She  played  indifferently, 
but  bridge  had  always  formed  part  of  the  diversions 
of  her  home  life  whenever  Lady  Flood  could  scrape 
up  four  people  for  a  rubber  on  winter  evenings,  so 
she  had  some  knowledge  of  the  game.  At  times,  too, 
Clive  used  to  tell  her  she  displayed  an  insight  that 
was  uncanny.  She  did  brilliant  things,  but  you  could 
never  depend  on  her  not  to  do  equally  stupid  ones. 
"She  does  let  you  down,"  one  young  middy  remarked 
ruefully  of  her.  Sometimes  she  overheard  scraps  of 
murmured  comment.  "What  Miss  Flood — Lady 
Flood's  daughter?  Didn't  she  run  away  from  home 
or  something?  Sister  of  that  lovely  young  Lady 
Wanley.  .  .  .  My  dear — you  can't  have  forgotten 
that  wedding!  What's  she  doing  here?  Studying 
art?  .  .  .  Roma  tells  me  she's  painted  the  most 
wonderful  portrait  of  her!  She  doesn't  look  as  if 
she  had  it  in  her." 

Roma  had  an  assured  triumph  that  summer  with 
her  constant  flow  of  wealthy  and  important  English 
travelers,  cultivated  men  and  women,  for  the  most 
part,  with  world-renowned  names.  The  garden  was 
often  thronged  in  the  evening  with  well-known  men 
and  beautifully  dressed  women.  Roma  always 
looked  wonderful  in  that  soft  setting  of  ilex-trees 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     177 

and  flaming  bushes  of  oleander,  with  blue  glimpses 
of  the  sea  visible  between  the  foliage.  Still,  in  spite 
of  increasing  social  engagements,  she  nearly  always 
gave  three  mornings  a  week  to  Sydney,  coming  up 
early  to  the  studio  before  the  great  heat  began,  when 
the  crystal  mists  had  not  quite  lifted  from  the  lagoon 
and  still  softened  the  edges  of  things,  and  the  towers 
of  Venice  were  a  little  blurred  against  the  sky. 

When  the  portrait  was  practically  finished,  Roma 
brought  up  a  party  of  her  friends  to  look  at  it.  She 
wanted  to  hear  other  opinions,  for  by  this  time  she 
had  learned  how  greatly  Moreton  disliked  it.  An 
artist  from  Paris — a  queer  yellow-faced  man  with  a 
shock  of  black  hair  and  prehensile  gesticulating  fin- 
gers, who  wore  a  couple  of  ribbons  in  his  buttonhole 
— praised  it  with  a  kind  of  exaggerated  fervor. 
"It's  very  nearly  wonderful,"  he  pronounced,  "and 
I  think  some  people  will  say  that  it  is  quite  won- 
derful." "Truth  and  vision,"  said  a  young  English 
artist  who  did  clever,  modern,  grotesque,  Futurist 
things  that  he  could  not  induce  any  one  to  buy. 
Among  those  who  were  not  artists,  praise  was  almost 
unanimous.  It  was  freely  whispered  that  Moreton 
didn't  like  it.  But  then  he  had  never  in  his  life  liked 
any  portrait  of  his  wife — not  even  that  wonderful 
one  that  had  been  in  the  Academy  just  after  their 
marriage,  and  which  had  created  such  a  sensation. 
Gradually  people  began  to  come  over  to  the  villa  on 
purpose  to  look  at  the  picture.  Yes,  it  was  the  work 
of  that  shy  girl  with  the  bobbed  hair  who  "adored" 
Roma  Cochrane.  But  she  could  paint!  It  was  all 
nonsense,  Moreton's  saying  that  she  could  not! 
What  was  he  about,  not  to  see  the  real  genius  of  it? 
And  the  work  of  his  own  discovery,  too!  He  de- 
clared that  she  ought  to  stick  to  landscape.  .  .  . 
One  or  two  more  fearless  heretics  said,  "Poor  old 
Moreton — he's  getting  old  and  cranky — he  can't 


178     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

judge  of  anything  unless  it's  been  painted  at  least 
four  hundred  years!"  Wait,  they  would  add,  till 
it  was  exhibited  in  Paris,  Rome,  London  and  New 
York — cities  where  Roma  Cochrane  was  well 
known.  It  was  inevitable  that  something  of  all  this 
should  reach  Moreton's  ears,  and  from  being  exas- 
perated with  the  picture  he  became  exasperated  with 
Sydney  herself.  So  his  opinion  was  being  criticized. 
.  .  .  He  remembered  with  bitterness  Sydney's  own 
swift  almost  sullen  rejection  of  it.  He  hated  the 
portrait,  wondered  how  much  she  would  want  for 
it  that  he  might  purchase  it  and  relegate  it  to  a 
decent  obscurity.  She  was  a  clever  little  copyist  who 
in  a  few  months  had  assimilated  Pinelli's  extraordi- 
nary technique.  She  hadn't  an  original  idea  in  her 
head.  Not  a  spark  of  real  genius.  Ask  Pinelli ! 
.  .  .  But  even  Pinelli  was  not  quite  with  him,  for 
he  came  over  to  look  at  the  portrait  and  was  in- 
clined to  take  something  of  the.  credit  to  himself. 
He  praised,  carefully,  judiciously,  even  with  some 
enthusiasm.  But  the  praise  sank  into  Sydney's  heart. 

As  yet  Clive  had  never  asked  to  see  it.  He  had 
always  remained  aloof  when  Roma  took  her  friends 
up  to  the  studio.  Perhaps  he  wasn't  really  inter- 
ested in  it,  but  Sydney  had  an  idea  that  he  preferred 
to  remain  outside  the  controversy,  which  sometimes 
quite  acrimoniously  agitated  the  Cochranes  and  their 
friends  that  summer. 

Roma  had  the  gift  of  calmly  pursuing  her  own 
way,  apparently  unmoved  by  adverse  currents 
and  violent  changes.  She  was  seldom  heard  publicly 
to  express  an  opinion  contrary  to  her  husband's, 
however  vitally  she  might  differ  from  him  in  private. 
But  dive's  queer  loyalty  to  Moreton  was  of  an- 
other quality,  and  he  wasn't  going  to  risk  entering 
the  lists  even  secretly  against  him.  Sydney  Flood 
was  a  passer-by;  she  wasn't  worth  risking  anything 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     179 

for,  he  used  to  tell  himself,  least  of  all,  any  difference 
of  opinion  with  Moreton. 

Had  he  pursued  this  policy,  it  is  certain  that  mat- 
ters would  have  had  a  very  different  ending.  It  was, 
however,  Sydney  herself  who  unconsciously  imposed 
upon  him  the  complications  and  difficulties  of  a 
divided  loyalty. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

SYDNEY  never  forgot  the  day  when  Clive  first  came 
up  to  her  studio  to  look  at  the  now  finished 
portrait. 

Moreton  and  Roma  had  gone  to  Venice,  to  lunch 
with  some  people  who  wished  to  have  Moreton's 
opinion  about  a  picture  they  were  inclined  to  buy. 
The  day  was  wet,  and  the  wind  slashed  the  rain 
violently  against  the  exposed  windows  of  the  tower- 
room.  Venice  was  quite  blotted  out. 

Clive  had  grown  tired  of  sitting  alone  downstairs. 
He  had  finished  a  novel  he  had  been  reading;  he  had 
smoked  innumerable  cigarettes,  and  now  he  had 
nothing  to  do.  The  weather,  he  told  himself,  was 
too  vile  for  words.  Moreton  and  Roma  would  have 
a  most  horrible  journey  back,  for  the  waters  of  the 
lagoon  were  quite  rough.  Growing  tired  of  this 
solitude,  Clive  suddenly  remembered  Sydney's  pres- 
ence in  the  house.  She  hadn't  come  down  to  lunch. 
Often  when  she  was  busy  she  did  not  appear,  but  had 
some  food  taken  up  to  her.  Well,  he  would  go  up 
and  have  a  look  at  this  wonderful  portrait,  about 
which  opinions  were  so  divided.  In  his  heart  he  was 
afraid  that  he  should  differ  from  Moreton,  and  this 
reason  had  loyally  prevented  him  hitherto  from  go- 
ing to  see  it.  Moreton  had  spoken  very  frankly  on 
the  subject  to  Clive.  But  youth  cries  to  youth  in 
eternal  alliance.  Clive,  the  younger  man,  belonging 
to  the  new  generation,  rebelled  secretly  and  almost 
unconsciously  against  the  older  man's  trained  and 
crystallized  judgments. 

Of  course,  Clive  was  aware  that  Sydney  had  not 

1 80 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     181 

realized  his  cousin's  confident  expectations.  But 
very  few  of  Moreton's  "discoveries"  ever  succeeded 
in  doing  that,  although  many  of  them  had  neverthe- 
less subsequently  achieved  lasting  fame  and  renown. 
Most  of  them,  to  onlookers  at  least,  had  been  wont 
to  illustrate  the  familiar  metaphor  of  the  rocket  and 
the  stick.  Sydney  had,  however,  been  in  a  slightly 
different  position  from  her  predecessors,  most  of 
whom  had  been  promising  boys.  It  was  certain  that 
the  Cochranes  had  never  done  quite  so  much  for 
any  student  before.  This  having  her  to  live  with 
them !  It  was  a  new  departure,  too,  to  persuade  a 
girl  of  good  family  to  leave  a  comfortable  home  and 
a  mother  bitterly  opposed  to  the  whole  proceeding, 
and  to  invite  her  to  live  with  them  for  an  indefinite 
period.  Her  position  was  becoming  permanent;  it 
would  be  difficult  for  them  now  to  get  rid  of  her, 
or  at  least  to  find  an  adequate  excuse  for  so  doing. 
Clive,  perceiving  serious  inconveniences  to  himself, 
hoped  that  the  experiment  might  never  be  repeated. 
.  .  .  Almost  unconsciously  he  had  let  his  thoughts 
dwell  a  good  deal  upon  Sydney  Flood  of  late.  She 
was  there,  and  she  seemed  to  have  the  unenviable 
gift  of  unconsciously  setting  people  by  the  ears  !  To 
Clive  she  was  something  of  a  problem.  Roma  cer- 
tainly seemed  fond  of  her,  liked  her  to  be  there, 
though  she  seldom  mentioned  her.  But  he  was  quite 
sure  that  Roma  didn't  want  to  have  another  person 
permanently  ensconced  in  her  house.  She  had 
Moreton  and  himself — two  people  to  fetch  and 
carry,  to  accompany  her,  for  she  never  went  any- 
where alone.  He  smiled  a  little  ruefully  at  this 
unflattering  aspect  of  himself. 

He  knocked  at  the  studio  door,  and  it  was  almost 
instantly  opened  by  Sydney.  She  wore  her  faded 
blue  over-all — a  workmanlike  garment,  smirched 
here  and  there  with  paint.  She  was  very  pale,  and 


1 82     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

her  eyes  were  shining.  Yes,  she  was  extraordinarily 
like  Boccaccino's  St.  Barbara.  If  she  had  been  a 
devout  person,  he  thought  fantastically,  he  might 
almost  have  persuaded  himself  that  she  had  now 
emerged  from  a  state  of  mystical  ecstasy.  The  soft 
bobbed  hair  was  slightly  ruffled  above  her  brow,  and 
gave  her  a  look  of  extreme  youth.  But  the  eyes — ^ 
the  shining  intelligent  almost  mystical  eyes — were 
not  those  of  a  child;  they  were  those  of  a  visionary. 
Curious  thing — he  had  never  noticed  before  how 
entirely  beautiful  they  were,  redeeming  the  face 
from  insignificance. 

"May  I  come  in  and  have  a  talk,  Miss  Flood?" 
he  said;  "I  want  to  see  this  portrait  you've  done 
of  Roma." 

"Do  come  in,"  said  Sydney.  She  put  her  brushes 
down  upon  the  table,  removed  the  sketch  that  stood 
on  the  easel,  and  then  produced  the  portrait. 

She  wondered  a  little  what  had  made  him  come  up 
at  last  and  express  a  desire  to  see  it. 

Clive  sat  down  on  the  divan,  facing  the  easel,  and 
smoked  in  silence.  Outside,  the  rain  hissed  against 
the  casements,  and  the  wind  shook  the  outside  shut- 
ters. Sydney  meanwhile  occupied  herself  with  put- 
ting away  some  of  her  things ;  there  was  such  a  litter 
on  the  table.  From  time  to  time  she  glanced  half- 
nervously  at  Clive,  wondering  what  his  verdict 
would  be. 

Clive  gazed  attentively  at  the  picture,  and  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  was  looking  at  Roma  herself 
from  an  entirely  new  angle.  He  seemed  to  see  new 
passions  in  the  face,  new  capabilities  of  tenderness, 
and  yet  there  lurked  behind  those  dark  eyes  whose 
gaze  followed  you  so  closely,  a  vigilance,  a  ruthless- 
ness,  that  he  had  never  before  suspected.  It  was 
not  the  Roma  whom  every  one  knew  and  admired, 
brilliant,  gay,  charming,  trying  to  please  every  one 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     183 

because  she  preferred  harmony  to  discord.  But  it 
was  the  face  of  a  woman  in  whom  there  were  sub- 
tleties of  love  and  jealousy  combined  with  relent- 
less power  and  determination,  and  these  qualities 
were  so  clearly  expressed  that  they  seemed  to  endow 
the  portrait  with  actual  life.  Had  Sydney  suspected 
the  existence  of  almost  sinister  complexes  in  Roma, 
or  had  her  brush  accidentally  revealed,  with  its  cold 
and  brutal  dexterity,  a  dual  personality  in  her  model 
such  as  psychologists  affirm  forms  part  of  every 
human  being,  but  which  to  the  Catholic  is  explained 
by  the  old  interminable  conflict  between  good  and 
evil  in  the  soul? 

As  he  looked,  he  felt  that,  like  Moreton,  he  hated 
its  amazing  cleverness.  For  it  was  a  beautiful,  ex- 
quisite thing,  full  of  Roma's  own  charm  and  grace. 
When  it  suggested  the  presence  of  other  qualities,  l\e 
was  certain  that  this  was  an  unconscious  achievement 
on  the  part  of  the  artist.  For  surely  Sydney  loved 
Roma,  and  she  had  received  from  her  nothing  but 
love  and  tenderness.  She  had  never  seen  Roma's 
proud  disdainful  side;  that  was  only  exhibited  when 
she  did  coldly  determine  to  rid  herself  of  a  bore  or 
a  limpet. 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  that  Sydney  was  wait- 
ing for  him  to  speak.  She  had  been  perfectly  still 
and  silent  while  he  reflected,  but  she  would  naturally 
want  to  know  his  verdict,  even  though  it  wasn't, 
like  Moreton's,  an  expert  one*. 

"You  know,  I  think  it's  good — very  good  indeed," 
he  said,  falling  back  upon  the  first  platitude  that 
occurred  to  him.  "Moreton  doesn't  care  for  it  as 
you  probably  know — I  daresay  he  would  give  you  a 
large  reward  for  permission  to  cut  it  into  little  pieces! 
And  Roma — Roma's  been  painted  too  often  to  care 
— one  portrait  is  like  another  to  her — representing 
only  the  result  of  hours  of  self-sacrificing  boredom !" 


1 84     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

Sydney  flinched  a  little  under  the  last  phrase,  it 
struck  her  like  a  whip.  Had  Roma  been  bored? 
Had  she  said  so?  The  thought  wounded  her.  But 
she  only  remarked  quietly : 

"I'm  glad  you  like  it.  1  think  if  you  like  it  I 
shall  be  perfectly  satisfied." 

Clive  was  astonished,  and  showed  it  in  the  expres- 
sion of  his  face  as  well  as  in  his  words.  "But,  my 
dear  Miss  Flood,  why  should  that  satisfy  you  ?  I'm 
an  ignoramus  about  art,  as  Moreton  and  Roma  will 
both  tell  you." 

But  her  answer  was  quite  simple.  "You  know  her 
so  well — I  feel  you  wouldn't  easily  be  pleased.  The 
better  we  know  a  face,  the  less  likely  we  are  to  be 
satisfied  with  a  portrait  that  at  best  can  give  only 
one  aspect  of  it.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  I  see,"  said  Clive.  "Then—J  think  you 
are  right.  But  this  does  please  me  in  a  sense,  al- 
though it's  a  phase  of  Roma  I  don't  know  particu- 
larly well,  and  one  I  should  say  which  she's  barely 
conscious  of  herself." 

She  looked  so  frankly  puzzled  then,  that  he  ex- 
onerated her  from  any  knowledge  of  those  complexes 
in  Roma's  character  which  the  portrait  seemed  so 
violently  to  suggest.  It  rather  relieved  him. 

"Well,  you  must  admit  that  we  all  have  more  than 
one  aspect — I  don't  mean  merely  a  profile  or  full- 
face.  You,  for  instance — I  don't  suppose  you  strike 
us  quite  in  the  same  way  as  you  do  your  mother, 
for  example.  And  you've  probably  other  aspects 
which  you  keep  hidden  from  every  one.  Looking 
at  you  sometimes,  I  should  say  you  have  a  deeply 
religious  one  which  you  don't  show  at  all.  And  we 
are  all  rather  pagans  here,  aren't  we?"  He  smiled 
as  he  spoke.  "It  wouldn't  do  to  show  us  too  much 
of  that  soul-side !" 

"You  think  it's  fantastic?"  she  inquired.     "I've 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     185 

only  drawn  her  just  as  I  see  her — perhaps,  too,  a 
little  as  I  see  her  in  my  dreams.  .  .  ." 

"In  your  dreams !"  repeated  Clive,  mystified. 

"Yes.    She's  always  so  beautiful  then." 

"Well,  you've  given  us  something  of  her  great 
beauty  here,"  he  said  kindly.  "And  I'll  tell  you 
what,  Miss  Flood — I'm  going  to  buy  it." 

"Buy  it?"  repeated  Sydney,  dismayed  and  aghast 
at  such  a  suggestion.  "Why,  it  isn't  for  sale.  I 
wouldn't  sell  it  for  all  the  world.  I  shall  keep  it 
myself,  unless  Roma  wants  it,  of  course,  and  then  I 
shall  give  it  to  her!" 

"Give  it  to  Roma?  Do  you  know  what  will  hap- 
pen to  it?  It  will  be  left  in  the  box-room  with  its 
face  to  the  wall,  if  it  has  the  good  luck  to  escape 
Moreton's  knife  !  You'd  far  better  let  me  buy  it — I 
should  always  give  it  an  honored  place,  for  the  sake 
of  the  artist  as  well  as  for  the  sake  of  the  sitter!" 

But  the  artist  always  has  to  learn  to  traffic  in  his 
wares,  and  although  Sydney  had  been  proud  and  de- 
lighted to  let  Moreton  have  her  little  Chelsea  sketch, 
this  portrait  was  another  affair.  It  was  an  intimate 
thing;  she  had  put  her  very  best  work  into  it.  It  was 
at  once  a  symbol  of  her  love  for  Roma  Cochrane 
and  of  the  gratitude  she  felt  towards  her.  It  be- 
longed both  to  herself  and  to  Roma,  and  no  one  else 
in  the  world  should  possess  it.  It  is  not  always  easy 
even  for  the  impoverished  artist  to  sell  the  children 
of  his  brain  and  genius  to  another  man  for  gold. 
The  fruit  of  those  shining  visions  is  in  a  sense 
sacred;  to  buy  and  sell  seems  something  of  a 
desecration. 

"I  can't  give  it  to  you,"  said  Sydney,  "but  I'd 
rather  give  it  to  you  than  sell  it.  I"  couldn't  sell  it." 
There  was  firmness  in  her  tone.  Clive  was  a  little 
astonished,  but  he  did  not  as  yet  realize  that  he 
was  defeated. 


1 86     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

"That  is  an  absurd  piece  of  sentimentality,"  he 
pronounced.  "I  intend  to  buy  it  and  I'll  make  you  a 
very  good  offer.  And  then  shall  I  tell  you — quite  in 
confidence  and  as  a  friend — what  you  ought  to  do 
with  the  money?" 

"Only,  I  shall  never  have  it,"  she  interposed. 
His  friendly  tone  baffled  her. 

"Well,  that's  for  you  to  choose.  And  having  sold 
it,  I  think,  as  you  have  learned  all  you  can 
out  here  for  the  present,  you  ought  to  go  back  to 
your  mother." 

His  own  temerity  embarrassed  him,  and  when  he 
had  said  the  words  he  went  to  the  window  and 
looked  out  at  the  falling  rain  and  the  gray  sky 
and  sea. 

Suddenly  he  became  aware  that  she  had  crossed 
the  room  very  quietly,  was  standing  by  his  side,  her 
face  raised  to  his  with  eyes  that  were  pitiful  in 
their  entreaty. 

"I  thought — -I  hoped — I  had  kept  so  out  of 
the  way  that  you  hardly  noticed  my  being  here  any 
more.  I  thought  you'd  got  used  to  it!"  Her  voice 
was  not  quite  steady. 

"Got  used  to  it?  My  dear  child,  what  on  earth 
do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean — I  couldn't  help  seeing  at  first  that  you 
didn't  like  my  being  here — in  Venice  especially,  when 
I  had  your  rooms.  But  here  it  seemed  different — " 
She  broke  off.  It  seemed  to  him  in  those  last  words 
there  had  been  the  least  touch  of  anger. 

"You  have  utterly  mistaken  my  motive  in  giving 
you  this  advice,"  he  said  haughtily  .  "I'm  not  think- 
ing of  myself  at  all — and  you  are  quite  wrong  to 
suppose  that  I've  ever  found  you  in  the  way.  I  like 
your  being  here,  and  it's  because  I  am  your  friend 
that  I'm  giving  you  advice  which  I  think  to  be  sound. 
Go  home  to  your  mother,  Miss  Flood — " 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     187 

"She  won't  have  me."  Sydney's  lips  closed  ob- 
stinately upon  the  words.  But  a  sudden  glow  of 
something  that  resembled  joy  thrilled  through  her. 
.  .  .  /  like  your  being  here.  ...  So  he  had  not, 
after  all,  considered  her  in  the  way. 

"Then  go  home  and  study  in  London.  With  your 
great  gift — " 

But  she  interrupted  him  with  a  stern:  "I  shall 
succeed  if  I  stay  here.  In  London  1  should  have 
no  one.  .  .  ." 

"And  you  mean  that  here  you  have  Roma?" 
he  said. 

He  was  not  easily  disconcerted,  but  something  in 
her  look  made  it  less  easy  for  him  to  proceed.  He 
could  see  in  her  something  of  the  determined  woman 
who  had  had  the  courage  to  defy  Lady  Flood  and 
leave  home  at  the  Cochranes'  bidding.  It  was  the 
ignorant  foolhardiness  of  such  a  step  that  chiefly  in- 
trigued him. 

"Yes.  She  is  the  first  real  friend  I've  ever  had." 
There  was  something  final  in  Sydney's  tone. 

"Nevertheless,  you're  wasting  your  time  here. 
And  the  question  is,  if  it's  worth  while." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  She  was  sitting  now  on  a 
low  chair  by  the  window,  leaning  her  chin  on  her 
hand  and  looking  up  into  his  face.  She  was  not 
angry  any  more;  she  seemed  only  to  wish  for  an 
explanation  of  his  so  strangely  proffered  advice. 

"Well,  I  should  say  you  were  missing  the  sub- 
stance for  the  shadow,  and  that's  always  a  mis- 
take." 

She  said  abruptly:  "But  I'm  happy  here — hap- 
pier than  I've  ever  been  in  all  my  life."  There  was  a 
touch  of  defiance,  as  if  she  dared  him  to  question  the 
truth  of  this  statement. 

"Yes  .  .  .  and  for  how  long?  I  am  going  to  tell 
you,  although  I'm  afraid  it  will  hurt  you.  Till  Roma 


1 88     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

gets  sick  of  you."  He  emphasized  the  last  words, 
thereby  increasing  their  deliberate  brutality. 

The  arrow  with  its  poisoned  tip  struck  home — it 
went  straight  to  the  very  heart  of  her.  He  admired 
her  stoicism,  for  though  she  turned  very  white  no 
sound  escaped  her. 

"Already,  as  you  must  know,  you've  disappointed 
Moreton.  This  portrait  gave  rise  to  a  good  deal  of 
rather  disagreeable  controversy,  and  the  critics  he  re- 
spects weren't  always  with  him  about  it.  It  was  very 
unfortunate  for  you  of  course,  and  I  know  you 
weren't  to  blame.  You  were  everything  that  was 
most  silent  and  discreet.  Disappointing  him  doesn't 
really  matter — his  geese  are  always  lovely  white 
swans  at  first,  and  when  they  do  ultimately  prove  to 
be  genuine  and  authentic  swans,  he's  always  got  a 
little  souvenir  of  them  to  comfort  himself 
with." 

He  was  not  enjoying  himself  then.  He  always  dis- 
liked speaking  sarcastically  of  Moreton  to  a  third 
person,  though  sometimes  it  was  necessary  to  do  so 
in  order  to  save  an  awkward  situation.  Yet  it 
savored  always  of  disloyalty,  and  Clive  was  at  heart 
fastidiously  loyal  to  Moreton.  If  the  chains  ever 
chafed  him,  he  gave  no  sign,  but  submitted  cheer- 
fully to  the  demands  that  were  made  upon  him. 
Nevertheless,  for  some  time  past  he  had  felt  sorry 
for  Sydney,  and  although  he  hated  to  hurt  her,  he 
wished  to  save  her  from  a  possibly  rude  awakening. 
She  had  courage,  too — she  was  so  quiet,  so  patient, 
beneath  this  deliberate  infliction  of  pain.  But  he 
sincerely  believed  that  far  worse  pain  awaited  her 
if  she  remained.  To  annoy  or  irritate  Moreton  was 
always  an  offense  to  Roma.  And  Roma  could  strike, 
and  strike  hard,  when,the  hour  came.  Clive  felt  sure, 
from  certain  signs,  that  the  hour  would  not  long  be 
delayed,  now  that  the  portrait  was  finished  and  the 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     189 

heated  discussions  concerning  its  merits  and  demerits 
had  died  down. 

Sydney  rose  and  went  back  to  the  easel,  and  as 
she  looked  at  Roma's  portrait  her  eyes  filled 
with  tears. 

"Yes,  I  know  I've  disappointed  him,"  she  said, 
"and  I'm  sorry  in  a  way.  But  he  thought  too  well 
of  me  to  start  with.  His  thinking  badly  of  me  now 
doesn't  really  mean  that  I'm  quite  hopeless." 

He  was  a  little  startled  at  this  plain  enunciation  of 
an  incontrovertible  truth.  Sydney's  cold  summing 
up  of  Moreton  was  quite  just  and  fair.  She  could 
measure  her  own  worth  without  aid  from  him.  She 
wasn't  a  fool,  and  she  had  grit. 

Those  steady  gray  eyes  enchanted  him.  He  liked 
the  soft,  almost  babyish  curves  of  her  face,  the  way 
her  pale  hair  grew  close  and  very  thick  against  her 
straight  square  little  brow.  The  lines  of  her  mouth 
were  both  sweet  and  firm.  She  was  too  good  for 
this  ambiente.  It  was  unsuited  to  her.  He  had  an 
odd  wish  to  remove  her  before  the  hurting  process 
actually  began.  Before  she  had  to  realize  that  Roma 
could  be  capricious.  He  no  longer  wanted  her  to 
go  away  for  his  sake  but  for  her  own.  She  mustn't 
think  she  wasn't  wanted,  at  any  rate  by  himself. 

"And  there'll  come  a  day — it  may  come  very 
suddenly- — when  Roma  won't  want  you  here  any 
more,"  he  told  her. 

"Will  there?    Are  you  sure?" 

Clive  laughed  a  little,  but  there  was  no  mirth  in 
his  laughter.  It  had  a  nervous  sound.  "You  don't 
suppose,  do  you,  that  this  dear  little  daughter  busi- 
ness is  going  to  last  forever?  You've  beaten  all  the 
records  already!" 

"Ah,  don't,"  said  Sydney  pitifully.  Her  confi- 
dence in  her  idol  was  still  almost  unshaken,  yet 
something  within  her  assured  her  that  he  was  right. 


190     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

"I  shall  wait  till  it  comes.    And  if  it  ever  does  come, 
I  shall  just  go  away." 

"But  that's  just  what  I  don't  want  you  to  wait 
for,"  said  Clive,  very  kindly. 

His  kindness  hurt  her  more  than  his  harshness. 
She  believed  now  that  he  really  did  like  her,  did  want 
to  save  her  from  something  nebulously  unpleasant 
in  the  future.  She  no  longer  thought  that  he  was 
playing  for  his  own  hand.  Yet  all  the  time  she  was 
trying  to  assure  herself  that  he  was  mistaken. 
"Roma  loves  me,"  she  told  herself;  "she  won't  want 
me  to  go — at  least  not  for  a  long,  long  time." 

"You  must  never  think  I'm  against  you,  Miss 
Flood.  If  I  had  anything  to  say  to  it  you  should 
stay  here  always.  .  .  ."  His  voice  held  something 
of  that  tenderness  which  always  rose  to  the  surface 
when  he  was  talking  to  a  pretty  woman.  And  Syd- 
ney was  pretty.  She  attracted  him  to-day  more  than 
she  had  ever  done  before.  He  could  understand 
why  his  cousins  had  taken  such  a  fancy  to  her  in  the 
first  instance. 

"I'm  afraid  I  oughtn't  to  have  said  anything,"  he 
went  on;  "I  see  you  don't  believe  me — that  I  haven't 
done  any  good  by  speaking.  All  I  can  ask  you  now 
is  to  forgive  rr^e."  He  moved  towards  the  door. 

To  his  astonishment  she  followed  him. 

"Donrt  go  away,"  she  said  entreatingly.  "What 
you  said  took  me  by  surprise.  You  mustn't  think 
me  unreasonable.  I've  been  afraid — one  always  is, 
isn't  one — that  it  was  all  too  beautiful  to  last !" 

She  stopped  short,  and  her  eyes  were  lifted  to 
his  suppliantly. 

Clive  met  her  look  and  in  his  face  there  was  some- 
thing hard  and  relentless  and  truth-compelling. 

"You  were  afraid  it  might  happen,  then?" 
he  said. 

"Yes — -yes.     Especially  through  Moreton.     Per- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     191 

haps  not  .  .  .  Roma."    Her  voice  failed  a  little  on 
the  word. 

So  that  was  what  she  wouldn't  bring  herself  de- 
liberately to  envisage.  Moreton  didn't  count — 
Clive  had  never  imagined  that  he  would.  .  .  . 

"Almost  from  the  first,  as  I've  told  you,  I  felt 
that  Mr.  Cochrane  was  disappointed.  He  expected 
too  much  of  me  too  soon." 

"And  you  don't  respect  his  judgment  sufficiently  to 
abide  by  it,  then?"  inquired  Clive. 

She  shook  her  head.  "He  may  be  quite  right.  But 
I  feel — more  strongly  than  ever  now — that  I've  got  it 
in  me.  I'm  conscious  of  a  power.  .  .  .  He  knows 
nothing  of  that."  She  spoke  now  as  if  she  were  on 
sure  ground. 

Against  his  will  Clive  felt  her  attraction  slowly 
growing  upon  him.  She  was  so  young,  and  despite 
that  quiet  gravity  of  hers,  she  was  so  full  of  the 
fresh  vitality,  the  vigorous  confidence  of  youth.  He 
liked  to  watch  her.  She  was  always  prettiest  when 
she  was  speaking.  .  .  . 

Clive's  attitude  was  almost  incomprehensible  to 
himself.  For  years  he  had  been  devoted  to  Moreton 
and  to  his  beautiful  wife,  had  yielded  himself  to  the 
influence  they  both  exerted  over  him,  so  that  he  had 
no  independent  life  apart  from  theirs.  He  lived 
with  them  nearly  always.  If  he  tried  to  break  away 
even  for  a  short  time  he  could  detect  subtle  signs  of 
displeasure  evinced  at  the  attempt.  And  he  wasn't 
really  quite  happy  when  away  from  them.  He  was 
deeply  attached  to  them  both,  and  since  their  mar- 
riage their  home  had  been  his.  Yet  he  felt  a  violent 
wish  to  save  Sydney  from  a  fate  that  would  surely 
wound  her.  He  knew  Roma  so  well,  and  caring  for 
her  profoundly  as  he  did,  he  still  was  determined 
that  she  should  not  have  another  victim — at  least 
not  this  brilliant,  sensitive,  ambitious  girl.  Despite 


192     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

all  the  idle  flirtations  that  had  marked  his  career, 
he  had  never  felt  so  attracted  by  any  woman  as  to 
take  her  part,  even  mentally  and  secretly,  against 
Roma.  The  disloyalty  of  the  whole  business  gave 
him  something  in  the  nature  of  a  shock.  And  in 
the  little  pause  that  followed,  he  put  out  his  hand 
and  took  Sydney's,  as  if  to  seal  some  unspoken  pact 
between  them. 

Then  abruptly  he  went  out  of  the  room.  And 
as  he  descended  the  stairs,  he  heard  Roma's  voice 
calling  him. 

"Clive!  Clive!  Aren't  you  coming  down  to 
tea?" 

He  went  downstairs  and  joined  his  cousins,  feel- 
ing a  little  relieved  that  he  had  just  been  in  time 
to  prevent  them  from  learning  where  he  had  spent 
nearly  the  whole  of  that  long  wet  afternoon. 

Sydney  Flood.  .  .  .  Poor  little  Sydney  Flood.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IT  did  not  occur  to  Roma  that  the  moment  of 
Moreton's  condemnation  of  Sydney's  work  syn- 
chronized with  that  of  Clive's  suddenly  awakened 
interest  in  both  work  and  artist.  She  knew  noth- 
ing of  the  manner  in  which  their  two  guests  had 
spent  that  wet  afternoon,  and  indeed  it  was  little 
likely  that  either  Clive  or  Sydney  should  confide  the 
substance  of  their  conversation  to  her. 

That  Clive  should  ever  interest  himself  in  Syd- 
ney did  not  seem  a  very  probable  happening,  though 
naturally  Roma  had  once  or  twice  mentally  reviewed 
its  possibility,  since  propinquity  has  before  now 
brought  extremely  unlikely  people  together.  And 
Clive  was  ingenuously  susceptible,  and  openly  pre- 
ferred the  society  of  women  to  that  of  men.  He 
always  confided  his  love  affairs  to  Roma,  and  in- 
deed she  had  had  the  privilege  of  watching  the  prog- 
ress of  many  of  them,  had  seen  them  rise  and  wane, 
had  listened  to  his  recital  of  their  development,  and 
shown  him  as  much  sympathetic  interest  as  an  elder 
sister  would  have  done  under  the  circumstances. 
Even  when  they  reached  that  phase  of  rapid 
crescendo,  which  with  him  was  always  the  penulti- 
mate one,  prior  to  disillusionment,  Roma  was  in- 
variably sympathetic  and  even  encouraging.  But 
she  had  never  known  him  fall  in  love  with  any- 
thing so  young  and  unfinished  as  Sydney.  Clive  was 
fastidious;  he  would  want  something  at  once  more 
sophisticated  and  more  expensive.  She  had  always, 
however,  expected  that  Sydney  would  fall  at  least 
a  little  in  love  with  Clive,  and  she  almost  believed 

i93 


194     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

this  to  have  been  accomplished  on  the  day  when 
he  had  read  the  Paradiso  aloud  to   them  in  the 

farden  at  Venice.  She  had  observed  the  girl's 
ushed  face  and  parted  lips  and  shining  eyes  as  she 
rose  so  suddenly  and  went  indoors.  .  .  . 

But  it  had  only  been  a  passing  emotion — that  was 
quite  evident — and  she  began  to  think  that  Sydney 
was  not  especially  susceptible.  Besides,  she  was 
obviously  thinking  of  other  things  than  love  and 
marriage.  She  had  chosen  to  work,  instead  of 
making  what  would  have  been  an  eminently  suitable 
marriage  with  a  man  who  was  certainly  very  deeply 
attached  to  her. 

Roma  relaxed  her  vigilance  a  little.  Sydney  was 
quite  safe.  The  girl  had  brightened  up  wonder- 
fully of  late.  The  success  of  the  portrait — for  it 
was  a  success  and  had  attracted  a  good  deal  of  at- 
tention, despite  Moreton's  unfavorable  criticism — 
had  evidently  pleased  Sydney.  There  was  just  the 
least  little  touch  of  assurance  now  in  her  manner; 
she  wasn't  so  deprecating.  .  .  . 

A  combination  of  circumstances  threw  her  for  a 
whole  morning  and  part  of  an  afternoon  into  Clive's 
company.  Moreton  and  Roma  received  a  telegram 
from  an  old  friend  and  client,  the  Duchess  of  Mer- 
thyr,  who  was  staying  at  Padua  and  wanted  More- 
ton's  opinion  about  a  picture. 

They  settled  to  start  off  early  on  the  following 
day  in  the  motor-boat  for  Fusina,  and  thence  take 
the  electric  railway  that  runs  to  Padua.  There  was 
a  suggestion  that  Clive  should  accompany  them,  but 
he  declined. 

They  were  sitting  in  the  garden  after  dinner  mak- 
ing their  plans.  Sydney  had  gone  up  to  bed  early, 
as  she  generally  did  when  she  had  been  working 
hard.  And  her  work  had  received  a  fresh  impetus 
of  late  from  the  success  of  the  portrait.  She  had 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     195 

ceased  to  let  Clive's  warning  words  alarm  or  dis- 
may her.  Roma  had  never  been  kinder  to  her — 
more  tender  and  affectionate.  She  couldn't  believe 
that  Roma  would  change.  .  .  . 

"Well,  you  must  stay  here  and  be  bored  then, 
Clive,"  Roma  told  him,  on  hearing  his  refusal  to 
accompany  them  to  Padua,  "for  unless  you  go  in  to 
Venice  for  the  day,  you  will  only  have  Sydney  to 
keep  you  company." 

"Oh,  I  like  little  Miss  Flood,"  said  Clive,  smil- 
ing; "she  doesn't  bore  me  at  all.  I  shan't  think  it 
a  hardship  to  be  left  alone  with  her  for  a  whole 
day." 

The  moon  was  almost  full,  and  its  light  was  sin- 
gularly brilliant ;  it  touched  Roma's  face  to  an  ivory 
tone.  She  had  wrapped  a  shawl  of  golden  silk  about 
her  shoulders  in  the  manner  of  the  Venetian  women, 
and  her  dress  and  shoes  were  white.  The  moon- 
light gave  them  a  blanched  effect.  She  might  have 
been  a  ghost  strayed  out  of  one  of  those  old  Vene- 
tian portraits,  sitting  there  in  the  dense  shadows  of 
the  ilexes  and  pines. 

She  had  not  replied  to  Clive's  lightly  uttered 
speech;  indeed,  he  wondered  if  she  had  heard  it. 
He  continued  gayly: 

"I  shall  try  to  make  her  come  out  of  her  shell 
a  little!" 

Roma  laughed  pleasantly,  as  if  she  had  suddenly 
been  awakened. 

"Well,  don't  try  too  hard!  Molluscs  are  much 
safer  inside  their  shells!"  she  said. 

Moreton  looked  up  sleepily. 

"You  make  too  much  fuss  about  that  girl,  Roma. 
It's  high  time  she  went  home  and  married  that  ex- 
cellent young  Turner.  People  ought  to  learn  to  cut 
their  losses." 

Clive  reddened  a  little;  he  felt  thankful  that  the 


196     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

night  concealed  from  Moreton  the  angry  blood  that 
had  risen  to  his  face.  It  was  incredible  that  More- 
ton  should  be  so  blind  to  contemporary  talent  I  He 
had  lost  confidence  in  Sydney's  genius,  and  the  natu- 
ral result  had  rapidly  followed,  he  was  beginning 
to  dislike  her  and  wanted  to  get  rid  of  her.  Soon 
Roma  would  seek  a  means  of  satisfying  him,  and 
poor  little  Miss  Flood  would  go  to  the  wall,  just 
as  Clive  himself  had  warned  her. 

He  had  never  felt  so  angry  with  Moreton  be- 
fore, and  it  made  him  stop  and  analyze  the  cause 
of  his  anger.  Was  it  because  he  cared  for  Sydney 
— was  beginning  to  care  for  her  suddenly,  after 
spending  weeks  in  the  same  house  with  her  and 
scarcely  noticing  her  presence?  He  could  not  tell; 
he  only  knew  that  his  anger  gave  him  a  sharply 
defined  desire  to  protect  her  from  Moreton's  ad- 
verse criticisms. 

But  he  sat  there,  saying  nothing.  Did  Roma 
guess  anything  of  the  tension  that  had  sprung  up 
between  the  two  men?  And  then  Clive  realized 
that  he  wished  to  keep  his  annoyance  a  secret  from 
Roma.  She  mustn't  know  of  that  newly-awakened 
interest  in  Sydney.  It  was  altogether  too  delicate 
a  thing.  It  seemed  to  him  in  that  moment  as  if 
Moreton  and  Roma,  from  being  his  best  and  near- 
est friends,  had  become  potential  enemies. 

"I  think  I  shall  take  a  walk  on  the  sands  and 
look  at  the  moonlight  on  the  sea."  He  rose  and 
lit  a  cigarette.  "So  I'll  say  good-night.  Good- 
night, Uncle  Moreton;  good-night,  Roma."  He 
walked  down  the  path,  pulled  open  the  heavy  iron 
gate  and  was  lost  to  sight. 

The  next  morning  Clive  rose  early  and  went  down 
to  the  landing-stage  with  Moreton  and  Roma.  It 
was  a  beautiful  morning,  the  lagoon  was  clear  as 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     197 

glass.  Venice  was  outlined  in  mingled  tints  of  gray 
and  gold  and  rose.  The  tall  and  slim  campanile  of 
San  Giorgio  rose  into  the  limpid  blue  of  the  sky. 

"What  a  heavenly  morning,"  said  Roma. 

"Yes,"  said  Clive,  "it's  a  pity  you're  not  going  to 
spend  it  here." 

"Oh,  I  couldn't  let  Moreton  neglect  such  an  im- 
portant piece  of  business.  I  wish  you  were  coming 
with  us,  Clive.  Grace  Merthyr  would  have  been 
delighted." 

"Not  for  the  world!  I  always  suspect  her  of 
wanting  me  to  marry  that  plain  eldest  girl  of  hers." 

"You  are  too  conceited  for  words." 

"Besides,  I'd  much  rather  go  into  Venice  with 
little  Miss  Flood  and  look  at  genuine  Tintorets." 

"Oh,  so  you  mean  to  go  sightseeing  with  her?" 

"If  I  have  your  permission,"  said  Clive,  smiling. 

"I'm  only  surprised  that  you  should  ask  for  it. 
But  still — yes,  I'm  sure  it  would  do  Sydney  good 
to  have  a  whole  holiday.  She  worked  like  a  slave 
over  that  portrait  of  mine." 

She  stepped  into  the  boat,  followed  by  Moreton. 
In  a  few  minutes  there  was  a  long  expanse  of  pale 
water  between  them  and  Clive.  Roma  waved  a 
handkerchief  to  him.  Then  he  turned  and  went 
back  to  the  villa,  drank  some  coffee,  smoked  a  ciga- 
rette, and  strolled  down  to  the  sands  for  his  morn- 
ing dip. 

Roma's  speech  had  simplified  matters  for  him, 
and  made  it  easy  for  him  to  go  up  to  Sydney's 
studio  on  his  return  and  suggest  that  they  should 
spend  the  day  in  Venice  together. 

"I  told  Roma  we'd  go  somewhere,"  he  said. 
"She  thought,  too,  it  would  be  good  for  you  to 
have  a  whole  holiday." 

Sydney  was  both  surprised  and  delighted.  How 
kind  of  Roma  to  think  of  it !  . 


She  was  ready  for  Clive  at  the  hour  he  proposed, 
which  was  ten  o'clock.  The  day  promised  to  be 
very  hot,  and  Sydney  had  put  on  a  dress  of  white 
fine  muslin  delicately  embroidered.  She  wore  a 
shady  white  hat,  and  white  shoes. 

"She  looks  like  a  little  girl,"  thought  Clive,  and 
tried  to  assure  himself  that  the  thick  bobbed  hair, 
of  the  color  and  almost  of  the  texture  of  spun  glass, 
was  ridiculous  in  a  grown  woman.  Still  it  suited 
her,  and  he  could  not  imagine  her  with  a  more  con- 
ventional coiffure.  He  sat  in  the  gondola,  stretched 
out  his  long  legs,  and  smoked  in  contented  silence. 

Sydney  leaned  back  lazily.  All  around  them  the 
lagoon  lay,  milkily-blue  and  colored  like  a  star- 
sapphire.  It  was  a  still,  windless  morning,  and  the 
golden  and  pearl  sails  of  the  fishing  boats  hung  mo- 
tionless. Venice,  over  there  in  the  distance,  was  a 
city  built  of  mists,  beautiful,  insubstantial. 

Far  off,  the  Alps  showed  their  vague  pansy- 
colored  summits  leaning  against  the  sky.  The  la- 
goon, spreading  like  a  sea,  lapped  the  shores  of 
innumerable  islands.  The  Lido  hung  like  a  green 
jewel  between  lagoon  and  sea. 

She  felt  as  if  she  and  Clive  were  floating  together 
upon  an  illimitable  crystal  sea.  She  was  very  si- 
lent. Her  eyes  were  drinking  in  the  beauty  of  all 
that  transparent  air  and  water.  As  they  approached 
Venice,  the  city  seemed  to  acquire  substance  and 
color  and  even  solidity,  while  the  lagoon  changed 
from  crystal  to  a  deep  sapphire  blue  with  jade-green 
shadows  that  made  it  look  like  a  beautiful  moving 
mosaic.  .  .  . 

"San  Giorgio,"  said  Clive  laconically  to  the  gon- 
doliers, who  obediently  made  for  the  rosy  column 
of  that  tower,  which  of  all  the  towers  of  Venice 
seems  to  arise  straight  from  the  sea  with  its  bright 
golden  angel  poised  upon  the  green  copper  summit. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     199 

"To-day  you  are  to  look  at  Tintorets,"  he  said 
to  Sydney.  "I'm  sorry  the  Accademia's  closed. 
There's  a  picture  I'd  like  you  to  see  there — Boccac- 
cino's  'Madonna  with  Attendant  Saints.'  The  St. 
Barbara  is  extraordinarily  like  you." 

"One  of  my  favorite  pictures  is  in  San  Giorgio's," 
she  said. 

"What — the  'Last  Supper'  ?  Yes,  it's  very  won- 
derful." 

"No — not  that  one.  The  'Coronation'  with  the 
young  St.  Placid  looking  upwards,  with  a  nail  in  his 
forehead." 

They  landed  upon  the  island  and  entered  the 
beautiful  Benedictine  church.  Clive  stopped  before 
the  "Coronation."  He  wondered  a  little  why  Syd- 
ney should  care  for  it  so  much.  She  was  looking 
at  it  now  with  shining  eyes,  as  if  she  desired  to 
imprint  it  imperishably  upon  her  mind. 

Again  she  felt  the  passion  of  faith  that  had  in- 
spired the  painter's  brush.  Was  such  passion  to 
be  found  in  the  world  to-day  ?  Something  for  which 
one  would  die  with  the  joyful  calm  serenity  of  young 
St.  Placid,  who  gazes  upward  in  the  picture  with 
the  cruel  nail  piercing  his  brow? 

Clive  was  an  excellent  guide,  he  knew  Venice 
well.  Sydney  dutifully  accompanied  him  round  the 
church  while  he  pointed  out  various  details  that 
might  have  escaped  her. 

"You  know,  of  course,  that  when  a  cat  is  intro- 
duced into  a  picture  of  the  Last  Supper  it  is  in- 
tended to  symbolize  treachery,"  he  said.  "You'll 
find  it  in  many  of  the  old  pictures — Ghirlandajo's, 
for  instance,  in  St.  Mark's  at  Florence.  And  the  dog 
in  the  same  way  represents  fidelity." 

They  returned  to  the  "Coronation,"  and  Sydney 
stood  there  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  it.  Clive 
fetched  a  couple  of  chairs  and  they  sat  down  be- 


200     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

fore  the  picture.  "I  must  get  her  a  photograph 
of  it,"  he  thought  to  himself. 

Presently  she  turned  abruptly  to  him. 

"I  wish  I  knew  more  of  the  Roman  Catholic  reli- 
gion." 

So  it  was  affecting  her — that  picture  of  the  young 
martyr.  He  had  not  been  mistaken  then  when  he 
had  thought  to  discern  in  her  something  of  religious 
fervor.  But  he  only  said  lightly: 

"Does  St.  Placid  inspire  you  with  a  desire  to 
die  with  a,  nail  in  your  forehead?" 

"I'm  not  sure.  .  .  .  But  it  must  be  something 
very  strong — very  wonderful — to  compel  men  to  lay 
down  their  lives  for  the  sake  of  it.  .  .  ." 

Clive  was  cautious.  "Of  course  the  very  fact 
of  being  in  Italy — of  seeing  all  these  splendid 
churches  with  their  wonderful  treasures — must 
make  us  think  about  it  a  great  deal.  In  England 
we've  banished  it  so  completely,  haven't  we  ?  We've 
deluded  ourselves,  too,  with  the  idea  that  success 
and  commercial  prosperity  are  to  be  found  only  in 
Protestant  countries,  as  if  they  were  the  things  that 
mattered  most  in  life!  The  War  has  shaken  our 
faith  in  that  a  little,  and  then  it  gave  many  of  us 
religious  questionings.  I  know  heaps  of  men — 
some  of  them  very  unlikely  ones — who  were  con- 
verted to  Catholicism  in  the  trenches.  Just  the 
sight  of  some  poor  dying  soldier,  receiving  the  Last 
Sacraments  from  a  priest  who  was  perhaps  wounded 
himself,  or  the  Crucifix  standing  unharmed  in  the 
midst  of  indescribable  ruins,  worked  the  miracle 
with  them."  He  spoke  in  detached,  impersonal 
phrases,  but  Sydney  remembered  that  Roma  had 
told  her  Clive  had  once  had  an  inclination  to  be- 
come a  Roman  Catholic  himself  and  had  relin- 
quished the  idea  rather  than  give  pain  to  Moreton. 

While  he  spoke,  Clive  watched  Sydney  with  re- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     201 

newed  interest,  with  a  curious  attention.  Of  course 
she  had  a  spiritual  side  ...  all  creative  artists  had. 
Genius  wasn't  merely  a  thing  of  the  brain  ...  it 
had  to  do  with  the  soul  as  well.  No  amount  of 
education  could  produce  it.  ...  And  Sydney  had 
genius. 

She  said  desperately:  "You  can't  think  how  I 
envy  St.  Placid.  To  find  something  worth  living 
for — worth  dying  for.  Something  eternal — 'ever- 
lasting. .  .  ." 

"Don't  envy  him,"  said  Clive.  "I'm  sure  it  must 
have  been  exceedingly  unpleasant  to  die  with  a  nail 
in  one's  forehead.  You  are  letting  Italy  get  on 
your  nerves,  Miss  Flood.  These  grizzly  stories  of 
the  martyrs  .  .  ."  He  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"I  think  you  are  alone  too  much.  Roma's  busy  of 
course.  .  .  .  And  she  thinks — we've  all  thought — 
that  you  were  perfectly  contented — you'd  got  leisure 
to  work  and  study." 

More  than  ever,  then,  with  her  soft  round  face, 
her  grave  earnest  eyes  with  their  uplifted  look,  did 
she  remind  him  of  the  so-called  St.  Barbara  in 
Boccaccino's  masterpiece. 

"Don't  think  too  much  about  the  Roman  Catho- 
lic religion,"  he  continued.  "I  admit  that  Italy  puts 
it  in  front  of  one  very  attractively,  and  as  long  as 
we  don't  share  her  faith  we  must  always  feel  like 
strangers  here.  Mediaeval  art  was  wonderfully 
pressed  into  the  service  of  the  Church — so  were  the 
Renaissance,  and  the  Baroque  movement  of  the 
Counter-Reformation.  But  Art  isn't  her  hand- 
maiden any  more." 

"Yes — I've  thought  of  that.  And  perhaps  that's 
why  Art  is  no  longer  so  splendid  .  .  .  it's  lost  its 
eternal  message." 

So  she  had  approached  the  Catholic  religion 
through  the  strange  byway  of  her  art.  She  was 


202     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

not  the   first   to  do   so.     Clive,   deeply  interested, 
waited  for  her  to  speak. 

"If  I  could  only  learn  more!  When  we  were 
living  in  Venice,  I  often  went  to  Mass.  I  thought 
sometimes  I  should  like  to  talk  to  a  priest.  .  .  .* 

"Yes?"  said  Clive. 

"I  feel  so  ignorant.  .  .  .  Religion  never  attracted 
me  before." 

"Well,  I  should  wait,  I  think,  before  consulting 
any  one." 

"I'd  like  to  do  ...  what  you  think  best  .  .  ." 
said  Sydney. 

"Oh,  you  mustn't  let  that  influence  you !"  said 
Clive.  The  words  had  startled  him — there  was 
such  a  simple  sincerity  in  her  voice  when  she  ut- 
tered them.  "There  are  things  we  must  decide  for 
ourselves.  But  I've  been  along  the  path  you're 
treading  now,  and  I  didn't  pursue  it  for  private 
reasons,  and  because  I  knew  I  should  be  hurting 
some  one — some  one  who  was  very  dear  to  me. 
That's  a  motive  which  pulls  many  of  us  up  at  the 
last  moment.  But  you've  cut  yourself  free  from 
your  own  people^  haven't  you?  You  can  do  pretty 
much  as  you  choose  in  spiritual  matters.  It  isn't 
my  business,  perhaps,  to  tell  you  to  wait,  yet  that's 
what  I  feel  about  it.  Wait  till  you  know  a  little 
more — have  learned  a  little  more — because  you're 
so  awfully  young  still !" 

He  rose  abruptly  and  went  towards  the  door. 
Sydney,  with  one  long  glance  backward  at  St.  Placid, 
followed  him.  After  the  cool  gloom  of  the  church 
the  sunshine  glittering  fiercely  upon  the  water  beyond 
almost  dazzled  her. 

"I  suppose  it  always  wants  a  great  deal  of  courage 
to  become  a  Catholic,"  Sydney  said,  as  they  took 
their  seats  again  in  the  gondola. 

"Well,  yes,  I  suppose  it  does.     But  you're  surely 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     203 

not  wanting  in  courage,  are  you?  Look  at  the  way 
you  made  up  your  mind  to  come  to  Venice  with  Roma 
whom  you  hardly  knew!"  He  laughed  a  little  as  he 
spoke.  She  had  never  had  the  least  notion  how 
reckless  that  action  of  hers  had  been ! 

"But  I  loved  her,"  said  Sydney  simply. 

Yes,  she  had  loved  her,  would  have  followed  her 
then  across  the  world.  Roma  had  touched  her  im- 
agination as  no  one  else  had  ever  touched  it.  Syd- 
ney's worship  of  beauty  had  at  last  found  some 
concrete  tangible  object  upon  which  to  expend  itself 
royally.  Now  things  were  a  little  different;  she  could 
acknowledge  this  to  herself  almost  without  grief. 
She  loved  Roma  still,  but  no  longer  with  such  com- 
plete simplicity.  And  with  her  present  knowledge 
she  would  have  hesitated  before  following  her  so 
far.  She  would  scarcely  have  taken  so  rash  a  step 
a  second  time,  fearing  lest  the  way  might  prove  to 
be  paved  with  sharp  swords  that  would  cut  and  bruise 
her  feet,  as  in  Hans  Andersen's  story  of  the  little 
Sea-Maiden.  .  .  . 

"Oh,  that's  a  phase  a  good  many  of  us  go 
through,"  said  Clive;  "however,  we  mustn't  discuss 
Roma — she's  a  law  unto  herself."  His  voice 
changed  and  he  paused.  Sydney  wondered  rather 
irrelevantly  if  Mrs.  Cochrane  had  ever  made  him 
suffer  during  that  process  of  molding  he  had  un- 
doubtedly undergone  at  her  hands.  Had  it  always 
been  so  easy  for  him  to  submit  to  her  will?  .  .  . 

"But  let  us  say,  for  instance,"  he  continued,  "that 
Roma  having  failed  you  if  only  a  little — people  never 
do  keep  very  firm  on  their  pedestals,  do  they? — and 
inevitably  they  get  tired  of  them  and  perhaps  hate 
the  homage — well,  as  I  was  saying,  Roma  having 
failed  a  little,  you  naturally  looked  about  for  some- 
thing to  replace  her.  Something,  shall  we  say? — a 
trifle  more  stable!  And  you  hit  upon  the  Catholic 


204     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

Church  as  offering  an  outlet  and  scope  for  unlimited 
adoration.  But  make  quite  sure,  first,  that  it  is  going 
to  give  you  all  you  expect.  .  .  .  Think  it  well  over, 
Sydney.  .  .  ."  He  had  never  called  her  by  her 
name  before,  but  the  word  slipped  easily  and  natu- 
rally from  his  lips.  Perhaps  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
speaking  of  her  thus  to  Moreton  and  Roma. 

She  only  said :  "You  see,  I  feel  it  is  exactly  what 
I  want  to  help  me.  Something  that  would  give 
meaning  and  purpose  to  my  life — to  all  I  try  to 
do." 

"Yes — I  quite  see  that.  And  I  think  you'll  prob- 
ably end  there  unless  you  follow  my  first  advice  and 
go  home." 

"No — I'm  not  going  home.  I'm  sure  you  were 
mistaken,"  said  Sydney. 

She  was  still  powerfully  under  the  influence  of  the 
picture,  its  spiritual  content  held  her.  Clive  liked 
her  all  the  better  in  this  desperately  earnest  mood. 
A  kind  of  intimacy  was  slowly  growing  up  between 
them.  He  did  not  pause  to  ask  himself  whither  it 
would  inevitably  lead  them. 

"Now  we  must  go  and  have  some  lunch,"  he 
said.  "I'm  hungry,  aren't  you?" 

"No — not  very,"  said  Sydney.  She  had  not 
thought  about  it,  out  when  she  sat  down  opposite 
to  Clive  at  a  little  restaurant-table  near  a  window 
that  looked  over  the  Grand  Canal,  she  suddenly 
discovered  that  she  was  very  hungry  indeed.  Be- 
fore them  they  could  see  the  splendid  Dome  of 
Santa  Maria  della  Salute  outlined  against  the  burn- 
ing blue  of  the  sky  in  delicate  silver  tints,  harmo- 
nious and  beautiful.  The  sunshine  was  still  a  little 
dazzling  as  it  played  on  the  broad  stream  of  the 
Canal. 

Clive  felt  quite  satisfied  with  the  success  of  their 
little  expedition. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     205 

"I've  made  her  happy  to-day,"  he  thought  to  him- 
self, looking  at  her  grave,  serene  little  face. 

And  he  thought  of  her  words,  spoken  so  simply, 
"I'd  like  to  do  what  you  think  best."  He  would 
scarcely  have  been  human  had  he  not  been  touched 
by  their  spontaneous  flattery.  They  were  not  to 
him  then,  as  they  seemed  afterwards,  a  danger 
signal. 

After  luncheon  they  loitered  about  Venice  in  the 
gondola,  seeking  the  narrow  shady  canals  during 
that  hot  afternoon.  And  Clive  took  her  to  one  or 
two  palaces,  of  which  he  had  the  entree,  to  show  her 
pictures  and  statues  that  were  not  always  visible  to 
the  public.  Evening  was  drawing  its  dusky  blue 
veils  over  Venice  when  they  returned  to  the  Lido. 

Sydney  went  up  to  her  studio  and  lay  down  on  the 
big  divan.  She  was  very  tired  and  very  happy. 
It  had  been  a  day  of  days,  one  of  the  happiest,  she 
thought,  that  she  had  ever  spent  in  all  her  life. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

AFTER  dinner  that  night  Roma  drew  Sydney's  arm 
within  her  own  and  stepped  from  the  loggia, 
where  the  meal  had  been  served,  into  the  garden. 

It  was  flooded  with  moonlight,  and  the  shadows 
flung  by  the  ilex-trees  were  ebony-colored  and 
sharply  defined.  Between  the  boughs  they  could 
see  the  sea,  with  a  broad  path  of  silver  across  it, 
mysterious,  illimitable. 

"Well,  Sydney  dear,  did  you  enjoy  your  day? 
Did  Clive  amuse  you?" 

"Very  much — he  was  so  kind,"  said  Sydney. 

"He's  a  delightful  companion,  and  such  an  inter- 
esting guide,"  said  Roma. 

"Yes,"  agreed  Sydney. 

At  that  moment  she  actually  feared  the  physical 
contact  of  Roma's  arm  within  hers.  It  was  as  if 
through  that  light  pressure  she  might  detect  in  Syd- 
ney something  of  the  new  emotion  which  the  events 
of  the  day  had  stirred  to  life.  A  day  of  days.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  know  what  he  says  about  you?" 

"No."  The  girl's  face  in  the  moonlight  was 
pale,  and  the  soft,  short,  uncovered  hair  had  some- 
thing of  the  moon's  silver  in  it. 

"He  says  you're  like  Boccaccino's  St.  Barbara." 

"Oh,  I  remember!"  She  laughed.  "I  want  to 
see  it." 

"We  must  get  you  a  photograph  of  it,"  said 
Roma  kindly.  "And  Clive  tells  me  he  could  hardly 
get  you  away  from  the  St.  Placid  in  San  Giorgio." 

"No — it  seemed  more  than  ever  wonderful  to- 
day." 

206 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     207 

"And  so  you're  still  thinking  of  becoming  a  Roman 
Catholic?" 

There  was  a  hint  of  gentle  mockery  in  Roma's 
high  sweet  voice. 

Sydney  drew  her  arm  away  with  impulsive  abrupt- 
ness. She  did  not  like  to  think  that  Clive  had  re- 
peated any  part  of  their  conversation  to  Roma. 
What  else  had  he  told  her?  Was  he  so  intimate 
with  her  that  he  told  her  everything?  Her  own 
conscience  felt  a  little  guilty,  though  she  had  as- 
suredly said  nothing  of  Roma  that  was  wanting 
in  love  or  loyalty.  A  dreadful  little  thought  that 
Clive's  advice  to  her  to  leave  before  Roma  grew 
tired  of  her,  might  have  been  based  upon  exact 
knowledge,  upon  something  definite  that  Roma  had 
said  to  him,  assailed  her.  But  she  thrust  it  from 
her.  She  truly  believed  in  Clive's  friendship.  He 
had  no  great  liking  for  her,  so  she  told  herself,  but 
he  was  a  little  sorry  for  her  because  she  was  solitary 
and  had  evidently  quarreled  with  her  own  people, 
and  he  considered  perhaps  that  the  Cochranes  were 
apt  to  neglect  her. 

"I  want  to  learn  more,"  was  all  she  said,  in  a 
cold,  proud  little  voice.  "Of  course,  I  often  think 
about  it."  She  puckered  her  brow. 

"And  Clive — does  Clive  sympathize?" 

"Not  exactly — he  advises  me  to  wait  till  I  know 
more." 

"But  I'm  sure  you  found  him  sympathetic  about 
these  spiritual  difficulties?"  Roma  persisted. 

"Yes.  But  he  didn't  encourage  me.  I  feel  as 
if  I  wanted  some  one  to  encourage  me  to  take  the 
step." 

"You  must  talk  to  a  priest,"  said  Roma.  "Only, 
Clive's  advice  seems  quite  sound — don't  do  anything 
in  a  hurry.  Lady  Flood  would  certainly  not  ap- 


208     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

prove — it  might  crystallize  the  very  difficult  situa- 
tion that  already  exists  between  you." 

"Yes,  it  would  do  that,"  said  Sydney. 

"I  was  always  glad  that  Clive  gave  up  the  idea," 
said  Roma.  "It  would  only  have  upset  Moreton 
terribly.  And  he  owes  so  much  to  my  husband. 
Very  few  fathers  have  done  as  much  for  their  sons 
as  Moreton  has  done  for  Clive." 

Sydney  said  suddenly:  "But  if  he'd  really  been 
in  earnest — if  he  had  had  the  faith — *hat  wouldn't 
have  counted  at  all!  I've  an  idea  that  nothing 
human  counts — it  must  be  a  much  stronger  love — 
a  much  deeper  devotion  than  any  earthly  one !" 

Roma  stared  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"Yes — I  think  you  are  right.  So  we  must  be- 
lieve that  Clive  hadn't,  as  you  say,  the  faith.  He 
had  leanings,  and  he  dutifully  checked  them  for  an 
excellent  human  motive.  I'm  glad  for  his  own  sake 
that  he  did  so.  He  depends  a  good  deal  upon 
Moreton — and  Moreton  has  a  great  dislike  to  giv- 
ing money  to  Roman  Catholics.  Clive  isn't  one  of 
your  strong  heroic  souls — he  couldn't,  I  think,  face 
poverty." 

As  she  spoke,  she  watched  Sydney  attentively. 
The  girl  shrank  a  little  before  the  scrutiny,  and  yet 
so  far  she  had  nothing  to  hide  from  Roma  except 
the  foolishness  of  her  own  heart.  But  she  guessed 
that  Roma  was  considering  her  in  her  altered  rela- 
tion to  Clive.  The  friendliness,  rather  than  the 
friendship,  which  had  sprung  up  so  suddenly  be- 
tween them  had,  perhaps,  not  altogether  escaped 
her.  She  was  studying  her,  Sydney  felt,  under  this 
new  aspect,  as  if  trying  to  discover  whether  that 
phase  of  falling  in  lov.e  with  Clive,  through  which 
she  had  once  declared  so  many  women  who  knew 
him  passed,  had  come  also  to  herself. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     209 

Then  Clive  stepped  out  into  the  garden  with  a 
lighted  cigarette  in  his  hand. 

"What  splendid  moonlight!"  he  said,  looking  up 
at  that  high  pale  sky  above  his  head.  "You  are 
an  artist,  Miss  Flood,  so  I'm  sure  you've  noticed 
that  the  summer  moonlight  in  Italy  is  almost  more 
golden  than  silver!" 

"Shall  we  go  down  to  the  shore,  Clive?"  said 
Roma.  She  pulled  her  silken  shawl  lightly  about 
her  shoulders;  it  increased  her  natural  slenderness. 
No  Venetian  woman  could  have  worn  it  with  more 
perfect  grace. 

Clive  did  not  answer,  but  he  moved  slowly  by 
Roma's  side  across  the  garden  towards  the  high 
iron  gates.  As  they  disappeared  together,  Sydney 
could  hear  the  echo  of  their  voices  and  low  laughter. 

On  the  sea  a  silver-white  sail  flashed  out  suddenly 
in  the  broad  path  painted  by  the  moonlight.  The 
hull  of  the  boat  was  of  velvet  blackness.  The  light 
wind  carried  it  swiftly  out  of  sight.  It  looked 
like  a  faery  vessel,  guided  by  no  mortal  hand. 

Sydney  shivered  a  little  and  then  went  indoors. 
In  the  loggia  Moreton  was  lying  on  a  long  chair, 
smoking  a  cigar.  He  looked  up  as  she  passed  on 
her  way  into  the  house. 

"Have  they  gone  down  to  the  shore?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,"^  said  Sydney. 

She  said  good-night  to  him  and  went  up  to  her 
room.  Across  the  broad  pale  expanse  of  the  lagoon 
she  could  see  the  lights  of  Venice  glowing  steadily 
in  long  serried  lines  under  the  stars.  The  towers 
were  dimly  outlined  in  blurred  silhouette.  The 
lights  of  the  ships,  lying  at  anchor  there,  hung  like 
jewels.  From  the  islands  other  lights  flashed  their 
message  across  the  water.  And  somewhere  out  in 
the  darkness  a  blue  lamp  was  burning  before  the 


210     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

little  shrine  where  the  Madonna  watched  over  the 
lagoon,  holding  the  Child  in  her  arms. 

But  after  that  day  it  seemed  to  Sydney  that  Roma 
had  changed  a  little  towards  her.  She  never  came 
up  to  the  studio  now,  nor  did  she  bring  people 
thither  to  look  at  the  portrait.  Sydney  dared  not 
envisage  this  thought;  it  struck  her  dumb.  If 
Roma  changed,  if  Roma  failed  her !  ...  It  was  not 
one  that  could  be  harbored,  and  Sydney,  young  and 
inexperienced,  shrank  from  grasping  the  nettle  and 
looking  the  terrible  little  truth  in  the  face.  If  Roma 
failed  her  then,  there  were  only  two  possible  courses 
open  to  her.  One  was  to  remain  by  herself  in 
Venice,  struggling  against  poverty;  the  other  was 
to  go  home,  a  prodigal  daughter,  who  would  cer- 
tainly find  neither  robe  nor  ring  nor  shoes  nor  feast- 
ing awaiting  her. 

Once  or  twice  she  thought  she  would  invite  Clive 
to  tell  her  the  exact  truth.  He  was  so  intimate 
with  his  cousins,  he  would  certainly  know  if  the 
time  had  truly  come  for  her  to  leave  them.  But 
she  had  no  opportunry  of  discussing  the  matter  with 
Clive.  She  never  now  saw  him  alone.  He  spent 
his  days  wholly  with  Roma  and  Moreton,  bathing, 
boating,  going  over  to  Venice,  lunching  out,  dining 
out.  Sydney  was  once  more  left  to  her  solitude  and 
work.  Sometimes  she  longed  for  just  such  another 
delicious  summer  day  spent  lying  back  lazily  in  the 
gondola,  with  the  breeze  from  the  sea  ruffling  the 
water  of  the  lagoon  and  Clive  sitting  by  her  side. 
She  thought  of  the  little  narrow  canals  running 
under  white  bridges  and  making  a  network  of  com- 
munication all  through  the  city,  the  tall  walls  of 
splendid  palaces  rising  above  them,  and  the  olean- 
ders flinging  their  flaming  masses  of  blossom  over 
the  ancient  gray  stonework. 

She  was  not  in  the  mood  to  paint.     Doing  that 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     211 

portrait  of  Roma  had  exhausted  her.  But  she  did 
achieve  one  or  two  slight  impressions  of  the  lagoon 
at  dawn,  with  the  towers  of  Venice  rising  beyond; 
these  she  finished  and  put  aside,  thinking  that  per- 
haps one  day  she  would  be  able  to  sell  them.  But 
the  fact  was  that  she  needed  a  holiday,  a  complete 
rest.  The  burning  days  of  late  August  tried  her. 
She  used  to  watch  almost  with  envy  the  three  Coch- 
ranes  start  off  day  after  day  from  the  villa,  bent 
on  some  expedition.  Often  they  were  away  from 
early  in  the  morning  until  dinner  time.  Apparently 
they  gave  no  thought  to  the  solitary  little  creature 
up  in  her  turret  room.  Even  Clive,  after  that  brief 
spell  of  friendliness,  seemed  to  have  forgotten  her. 
Perhaps  this  was  his  way  of  demonstrating  to  Syd- 
ney that  she  really  had  only  one  course  open  to 
her,  and  that  was  to  go  home.  She  had  rejected  his 
advice,  and  now  she  was  to  be  made  to  learn  perhaps 
that  he  had  not  spoken  without  interior  knowledge 
of  the  situation. 

One  day  after  their  departure,  she  went  down 
to  the  landing-stage  and  took  the  steamer  that  plied 
between  the  Lido  and  Venice.  She  felt  she  must 
have  change — distraction.  They  were  to  be  away 
all  day  until  evening;  she  had  heard  them  gayly  dis- 
cussing their  plans  last  night.  When  she  arrived  at 
the  Riva  degli  Schiavoni,  she  hired  a  gondola  and 
went  to  the  Fondamenta  Nuova,  whence  she  crossed 
to  the  little  island  cemetery  of  San  Michele.  She 
had  never  been  there,  but  its  red  walls  and  dark 
rows  of  cypresses  seen  from  the  distance  had  at- 
tracted her.  As  she  stood  in  the  little  piazza  out- 
side the  church,  she  saw  a  gondola  approaching, 
guided  by  two  men  in  deepest  black.  The  gondola 
was  hung  with  black  and  silver  trappings  like  a 
hearse,  and  a  great  pall  hid  some  oblong-shaped 
thing  which  must  be,  she  knew,  a  coffin.  Close  be- 


212     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

hind  it  came  a  second  and  a  third  gondola  with  lit- 
tle groups  of  mourners,  men  and  women,  in  them. 
She  could  only  catch  glimpses  of  them  sitting  under 
the  black  hood,  but  she  could  discern  the  long  crepe 
veils  worn  in  Italy  by  women  and  girls  when  mourn- 
ing for  their  dead.  They  made  them  look  like 
widows.  .  .  .  Then  another  gondola  came  in  sight, 
bright  with  flowers,  piled  up  with  the  great  wreaths 
that  were  fashioned  of  two  large  palm-branches  to 
which  graceful  knots  of  blossoms  were  skillfully 
attached.  There  was  something  stately  and  digni- 
fied, and  yet  very  simple,  about  the  little  funeral 
procession  coming  across  the  lagoon.  Under  the 
bright  blue  sky  and  the  fierce  golden  sunshine  the 
deep  blackness  of  the  gondolas  with  their  dark  hoods 
and  funereally-clad  mourners  made  a  wonderful  ef- 
fect that  was  at  once  sober  and  splendid  and  very 
solemn. 

When  they  reached  the  quay,  the  coffin  was  trans- 
ferred to  a  bier  and  wheeled  swiftly  into  the  church. 
Franciscan  figures  garbed  in  the  brown  habit  of  their 
order  awaited  it,  and  one  of  them  wearing  a  cotta 
and  stole  sprinkled  it  with  holy  water,  murmuring 
Latin  prayers.  The  coffin  was  placed  upon  a 
catafalque  already  prepared  before  the  High  Altar, 
and  covered  again  with  the  pall.  The  mourners 
slipped  quietly  into  their  seats  and  knelt  down.  Syd- 
ney followed  their  example,  keeping  in  the  back- 
ground where  she  believed  that  no  one  would  no- 
tice her.  She  was  intensely,  almost  passionately, 
interested.  Presently  she  looked  up  and  saw  three 
priests,  in  black  vestments,  enter  the  sanctuary.  The 
Mass  began.  Hidden  voices  sang  the  Introit,  rising 
and  falling  in  solemn  chant:  Requiem  aternam  dona 
eis,  Domine,  et  lux  perpetua  luceat  els.  The  Grad- 
ual repeated  the  same  supplication.  Presently 
through  the  church  the  Dies  Ira  sounded  solemnly 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     213 

— that  wonderful  Sequence  wherein  the  Church 
seems  to  cry  for  mercy  for  her  dead. 

Sydney  remained  there  motionless  in  her  corner. 
She  was  thrilled,  and  yet  the  solemnity  of  the  serv- 
ice awed  her.  It  was  the  first  time  she  had  been 
present  at  a  Catholic  funeral  and  heard  a  Requiem 
Mass.  There  was  something  at  once  simple  and 
yet  splendid  about  this  last  rite,  something  that 
made  her  think  of  a  child  going  to  sleep  very  tran- 
quilly and  sweetly  in  the  arms  of  its  mother.  It 
was  no  moment  for  passionate,  unrestrained  grief. 
This  was  not  a  sorrow  that  lacked  hope.  It  made 
but  one  more  link  between  heaven  and  earth;  one 
more  freed  soul  to  join  the  ones  who  had  passed  on 
before  it.  These  mourners  were  praying  for  that 
soul  as  perhaps  they  had  never  prayed  for  it  in 
life.  It  needed  the  prayers  and  suffrages  of  the 
living,  so  that  the  stains  of  earth  might  be  quickly 
purged  from  it,  and  it  might  enter  into  the  glory 
of  that  paradise  which  Dante  had  described.  E  la  sua 
volontate  e  nostra  pace.  .  .  .  Those  words,  uttered 
in  Clive's  musical  voice,  came  back  sharply  to  her 
remembrance. 

A  bell  rang.  She  saw  the  gleaming  Host  uplifted 
above  the  priest's  head.  Instinctively  she  bowed  her 
body,  covering  her  face  with  her  hands.  There 
was  a  hush  all  through  the  church.  The  bell  rang 
a  second  time,  and  she  watched  the  swift  Elevation 
of  the  Chalice.  She  had  the  sense  then  of  having 
reached  a  home  that  had  always  been  awaiting  her. 
She  could  have  knelt  there  in  adoration  for 
hours. 

When  the  Mass  had  ended  and  the  Holy  Sacrifice 
had  been  offered  for  this  dead  child  of  the  Church, 
the  priests  descended  into  the  aisle  where  the  coffin 
lay.  One  of  them  sprinkled  it  with  holy  water. 
The  Pater  Noster  was  said,  the  last  Absolution 


2i4     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

given.  Mother  Church  had  received  her  dead  child 
into  her  bosom,  had  gathered  it  thus  to  her,  shriven, 
absolved.  Honor  to  the  frail  tenement  of  clay  that 
had  returned  to  its  own  dust;  prayer  and  sacrifice 
for  the  immortal  soul  that  had  gone  forth  upon  its 
last  journey.  .  .  . 

Sydney  followed  the  cortege  through  the  beau- 
tiful sixteenth-century  cloister,  and  out  into  the  wide 
sloping  space  beyond,  that  formed  the  cemetery. 
Groves  of  cypresses  lifted  their  slim  spires  to  the 
blue  sky.  The  wind  from  the  lagoon  rustled  in 
the  long  grasses  that  clothed  the  ground.  There 
were  flaming  bushes  of  oleander  to  break  the  sor- 
rowful darkness  of  the  cypress  trees. 

She  stood  at  a  little  distance  as  the  coffin  was  be- 
ing lowered  into  the  ground.  Then  she  turned 
and  hurried  away,  fearful  of  intruding,  or  of  being 
perceived  by  the  little  knot  of  mourners. 

She  walked  back  into  the  church  and  as  she  went 
towards  the  door  she  suddenly  espied  a  tall  figure 
standing  there,  looking  up  at  the  smiling  Bernini 
statues  that  adorned  a  tomb.  At  first  she  did  not 
realize  that  it  was  Clive  Cochrane.  But  when,  as 
she  came  closer,  she  did  recognize  him  she  had  an 
instinct  to  slip  past  him,  hoping  that  he  would  not 
notice  her.  She  did  not  wish  to  talk  to  him  just 
then;  she  felt  that  any  conversation  would  too  swiftly 
dispel  the  impressions  of  that  wonderful  experience 
through  which  she  had  just  passed.  She  had  the 
sense  of  having  been  transported  into  another  world, 
where  dead  and  living  were  gathered  up  into  one 
vast  fold — the  Communion  of  Saints.  For  she  had 
not  been  saddened;  she  had  felt,  as  never  before, 
the  ultimate  victory  of  life  over  death.  Life  en- 
dured, persisted,  triumphed,  because  it  was  immor- 
tal, indestructible.  Its  passage  through  the  world 
was  only  a  voyage  more  or  less  protracted,  a 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     215 

traveling  towards  the  gate  that  men  misnamed 
"death."  .  .  . 

But  Clive's  eyes  were  already  upon  her. 

"Why,  Miss  Flood !"  he  said. 

She  stood  by  his  side;  it  did  not  occur  to  her  to 
offer  any  explanation  of  her  presence  there. 

"Those  statues  are  Bernini's,"  he  said.  "It  is 
the  fashion  to  admire  him  now,  you  know — there 
is  quite  a  cult  for  him  in  Rome.  I  confess  to  hav- 
ing admired  him  before  it  was  the  fashion,  but  I 
haven't  been  able  to  convert  Moreton.  Middle- 
aged  men  are  terribly  hard  to  convert  to  any  new 
point  vof  view!" 

He  delivered  this  dictum  with  one  of  his  bright 
smiles. 

They  went  out  into  the  little  piazza.  Sydney 
said:  "I  have  a  gondola  waiting  for  me.  Will  you 
— will  you  come  back  in  it?" 

"But  of  course,"  said  Clive.  "So  you  are  sight- 
seeing on  your  own  to-day?" 

"Yes — I  didn't  feel  inclined  to  work." 

"Enjoying  it?"  His  lazy  blue  eyes  contem- 
plated her  half-curiously. 

"Very  much." 

"You  look — ecstatic — almost,"  he  told  her.  "I'd 
no  idea  San  Michele  was  such  an  inspiring  place." 

"It  was  to  me.  I've  been  to  a  funeral  ...  it 
was  wonderful!" 

Like  most  young  men  who  are  sound  in  body 
and  healthy  in  mind,  Clive  had  no  particular  fancy 
for  allowing  his  thoughts  to  dwell  upon  his  latter 
end.  He  stared  at  her  in  astonishment. 

"But,  my  dear  Miss  Flood!  You've  enjoyed  a 
funeral?  Well,  de  gustibus! — "  He  shrugged 
his  shoulders,  and  then  helped  her  into  the  gon- 
dola. 

Sydney  flushed.     "It  wasn't  so  much  the  funeral 


216     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

but  the  Requiem  Mass — the  beautiful  singing.  So 
sober  and  solemn,  and  yet  such  hope  .  .  ." 

"You  lucky  child!  You're  full  of  enthusiasms," 
said  Clive. 

She  looked  almost  beautiful,  he  thought,  sitting 
there  very  still,  with  her  cheeks  flushed  a  little  and 
her  eyes  shining. 

Although  he  laughed  at  her,  she  felt  he  was  not 
unsympathetic.  And  she  was  glad  to  have  him 
there,  glad  that  they  were  to  make  the  homeward 
journey  together,  although  somehow  to-day  his  pres- 
ence didn't  seem  to  matter  quite  so  vitally.  The 
spiritual  experience  had  affected  her  too  profoundly, 
and  she  felt  that  she  understood  St.  Placid  as  never 
before.  The  bitter  physical  torment  and  agony  of 
martyrdom  had  constituted  for  him  a  short  pas- 
sage to  the  ineffable  joys  which  his  faith  taught  him 
were  awaiting  him.  If  only  the  whole  world  could 
return  to  that  faith,  what  a  profound  and  beauti- 
ful change  would  come  over  it!  What  a  solution 
of  all  difficult  problems,  what  a  return  to  those 
ideals  which  alone  were  worth  struggling  for,  liv- 
ing for,  dying  for.  No  form  of  Protestantism  could 
ever  teach  such  an  authoritative  message,  unchanged 
across  nearly  two  thousand  years.  That  strange 
vision  of  the  Truth  which  tears  the  scales  from 
human  eyes  and  compels  them  to  behold  its  white 
dazzling  glory,  had  come  to  Sydney.  .  .  . 

"You'll  come  back  to  Venice  to  lunch  with  me, 
won't  you?"  said  Clive,  presently. 

"Yes,  thank  you."  There  was  no  eagerness  in 
her  voice,  and  he  felt  almost  irritated  by  her  ob- 
vious absorption  in  the  contemplation  of  her  recent 
experience.  Well,  there  would  be  no  stopping  her 
now,  he  reflected.  She  would  certainly  become  a 
Roman  Catholic,  and  thus  perhaps  cut  herself  per- 
manently off  from  her  own  people.  No  one  could 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     217 

blame  Roma  for  that,  or  consider  her  responsi- 
ble. .  .  . 

"Where  is  Roma?"  said  Sydney,  suddenly. 

"They  met  friends  in  the  Piazza — boring  people, 
who  carried  them  off  to  luncheon.  They  asked  me 
to  go  too,  but  I  refused.  Besides,  I  wanted  to  look 
at  those  statues.  I'm  glad  I  was  too  late  for  the 
funeral  though.  I've  an  idea  it  might  have  de- 
pressed me  as  much  as  it  seems  to  have  had  the 
reverse  effect  upon  you.  Anyhow,  it  was  a  piece 
of  luck  my  finding  you  there.  I  hate  lunching 
alone." 

When  they  had  landed,  Clive  led  the  way  swiftly 
down  a  network  of  calli  and  across  small  bridges 
that  spanned  narrow  canals,  where  the  water  was 
of  a  deep  opaque  green.  They  went  across  squares 
presided  over  by  great  churches,  where  houses  and 
shops  seemed  to  doze  idly  in  the  sun.  Clive  knew 
his  way  so  well  that  it  evoked  Sydney's  admiration, 
for  the  Venetian  streets  and  alleys  still  perplexed 
her,  and  she  had  found  it  useless  to  try  and  guide 
herself  by  the  usual  means  of  a  map.  Clive  went 
on  a  little  ahead  of  her,  and  she  followed,  won- 
dering at  the  swift  and  easy  spring  of  his  move- 
ments. There  was  something  of  the  physical  per- 
fection of  the  trained  athlete  about  Clive  that  made 
people  turn  back  and  look  at  him  after  he  had 
passed. 

Clive  hired  a  gondola  that  afternoon,  when  they 
had  lunched  at  a  hotel  on  the  Grand  Canal  and 
rested  on  the  terrace  afterwards.  For  quite  two 
hours  they  seemed  to  explore  the  innermost  recesses 
of  Venice.  Finally  they  emerged  into  the  Grand 
Canal  close  to  the  fruit-market  and  saw  the  barges 
laden  with  that  harvest  which  Italy  possesses  in 
such  abundance.  There  were  great  heaps  of  water- 
melons, those  verdant  balls  of  cool  refreshment,  col- 


218     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

ored  with  the  softness  of  green  grass  seen  in 
shadow;  scarlet  masses  of  ripe  tomatoes;  the  crim- 
son and  gold  of  sun-kissed  peaches.  There  was  a 
richness  and  splendor  of  color  in  the  scene  that 
made  Sydney  long  to  return  thither  and  paint  it. 
As  they  went  under  the  bridge  of  the  Rialto  on  their 
homeward  way,  a  steamer  passed  them  and  they 
were  caught  in  its  wash;  the  gondola  swayed  and 
tossed  with  the  agitation  of  the  water. 

Clive  looked  at  his  watch. 

"We'll  take  the  steamer  back  to  the  Lido,"  he 
said;  "it's  getting  late,  you  know,  and  Roma  will 
be  wondering  what's  become  of  us.  I  feel  like  a 
truant,  but  we've  had  a  ripping  afternoon,  haven't 
we?" 

He  laughed,  but  Sydney  fancied  she  could  detect 
something  of  nervousness  in  his  laugh. 

The  steamer  was  very  crowded  at  that  hour,  and 
they  had  difficulty  in  finding  even  standing  room. 
They  stood  so  close  together  that  Clive's  arm 
touched  hers.  People  turned  and  looked  at  the  Eng- 
lish couple,  Clive,  tall  and  slender  in  his  gray  flan- 
nel suit  and  Panama  hat  and  with  that  almost  arro- 
gant grace  of  bearing,  and  Sydney  with  her  short 
soft  hair,  her  striking  Northern  fairness.  It  is  pos- 
sible that  most  of  their  fellow-passengers  put  them 
down  as  a  newly-married  pair  on  their  honeymoon. 
Clive's  manner  was  gently  protective;  he  shielded 
Sydney  from  all  rough  contact  with  the  crowd. 


CHAPTER  XX 

As  they  walked  along  the  road  to  the  villa,  they 
caught  sight  of  Roma  in  her  white  dress  mov- 
ing about  among  the  trees  in  the  garden.  Clive 
called  to  her  as  they  approached,  "Roma !  Roma  1" 
.  .  .  She  came  down  the  path  to  meet  them. 

"Well,  Clive !  Why,  my  dear  Sydney,  I  was  get- 
ting quite  anxious  about  you.  Of  course,  if  I'd 
known  you  were  with  Clive  I  shouldn't  have  both- 
ered. But  the  servants  told  me  you  went  out  quite 
early  this  morning — *oon  after  we  did,  in  fact — so 
I  began  to  feel  you  had  lost  yourself  in  Venice.  .  .  ." 

As  she  spoke,  she  put  her  two  hands  on  Sydney's 
shoulders  and  kissed  her  flushed  face. 

"I'm  sorry,"  stammered  Sydney — "I  didn't  mean 
to  stay  out  so  long,  but  I  met  Mr.  Cochrane  .  .  ." 
She  turned  rather  helplessly  to  Clive,  as  if  appealing 
to  him  to  explain. 

He  said  slowly:  "We've  been  idling  in  a  gon- 
dola. It's  the  only  way  of  spending  such  a  perfect 
day  as  this !" 

Sydney  moved  away,  and  went  into  the  house.  It 
was  time  to  dress  for  dinner,  and  she  was  conscious 
now  that  her  long  day  had  tired  her.  She  had  not 
realized  how  exhausted  she  was  until  she  heard 
Roma's  greeting,  with  its  gentle,  half-playful  reproof 
that  had  suddenly  chilled  her.  It  was  absurd,  yet 
she  could  almost  have  believed  that  Roma  disap- 
proved of  her  spending  the  day  with  Clive  in  this 
manner. 

When  she  had  gone  indoors,  Roma  turned  to 

219 


220     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

Clive  and  said:  "Clive,  it  isn't  fair!  She's  such  a 
baby  thing!" 

"What  isn't  fair,  my  dear  Roma?  Taking  Miss 
Flood  in  a  gondola  to  see  Venice,  which  you  know 
she's  never  really  done  thoroughly?" 

"No — I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean — your  paying 
her  so  much  attention." 

Clive  laughed  good-humoredly.  "You  can  really 
hardly  accuse  me  of  doing  that.  We  met  by  acci- 
dent at  San  Michele — of  all  places  in  the  world. 
I'd  no  idea  she  would  be  there  when  I  went  to  look 
at  those  Berninis.  Could  I  do  anything  but  take 
her  to  lunch  somewhere?  Afterwards  I  showed 
her  the  fruit  market  and  other  objects  of  interest. 
She'd  been  to  a  Requiem  Mass  and  funeral  at  San 
Michele — it  made  her  more  dull  and  silent  than 
usual.  .  .  ." 

"Poor  Clive!  Were  you  so  dreadfully 
bored?" 

"No,  I  wasn't  bored,"  said  Clive,  frankly;  "I  like 
looking  at  her,  you  know.  She  makes  me  believe 
in  an  immortal  soul.  And  she's  quite  pretty  really 
— pretty  enough  to  be  dull  and  silent  and  not  lose 
by  it!" 

"Yes,  she's  very  pretty,"  agreed  Roma. 

She  was  reassured  by  Clive's  saying  that  their 
meeting  had  been  wholly  accidental.  For  of  course 
she  must  take  care  of  Sydney.  .  .  .  She  was  not  like 
an  ordinary  art  student,  independent,  self-reliant, 
able  to  look  after  herself.  And  despite  Lady 
Flood's  present  anger  with  her,  Roma  knew  that 
she  would  not  thank  them  for  letting  her  daughter 
bind  herself  to  a  foolish  engagement.  Clive  had 
not  a  great  deal  of  money  of  his  own,  certainly  not 
enough  for  a  wife  and  family.  He  depended  very 
much  upon  Moreton's  generosity,  but  Moreton 
would  be  certain  to  disapprove  of  his  marrying  Syd- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     221 

ney.  Roma  had  often  been  astonished  at  the  easy, 
thoughtless  manner  in  which  Clive  would  embark 
upon  seemingly  serious  flirtations  with  ineligible  pen- 
niless girls.  She  had  known  quite  a  succession  of 
them — had  remonstrated  with  him  on  the  subject 
more  than  once.  But  this  time  she  felt  some  little 
diffidence  about  doing  so.  Sydney  was  a  perfectly 
suitable  match  for  Clive;  it  was  rather  a  question 
whether  Lady  Flood  would  smile  upon  her  engage- 
ment to  an  idle  young  man  without  too  much  money. 
Sydney  would  have  her  portion  when  she  married, 
even  if  Lady  Flood  declined  to  augment  it.  Her 
only  sister  was  married  to  a  man  of  great  position 
and  wealth.  Roma  felt  she  could  not  now  say  to 
Clive  as  she  had  often  done  before:  "You  couldn't 
marry  a  girl  like  that,  you  know,  without  regretting 
it  to  the  end  of  your  days!" 

But  she  couldn't — she  told  herself  ruefully — play 
eternal  policeman.  It  was  a  thankless  part,  quite 
unsuited  to  her  type.  If  they  wished  to  be  together, 
she  would  not  interfere.  And  indeed  it  was  almost 
the  best  policy  to  pursue  if  one  desired  the  whole 
thing  to  end  quickly.  Clive  would  soon  grow  tired 
of  it.  She  had  known  him  quite  desperately  in  love, 
and  recover  from  it  with  astonishing  rapidity.  And 
he  wasn't  in  love  with  Sydney.  She  knew  the  signs 
in  him  only  too  well.  His  interest  was  lightly 
aroused;  he  was  intrigued  by  that  spirituality  of  hers 
which  had  become  more  pronounced  in  Venice. 
Very  soon  she  would  be  quite  sure  to  bore  him.  She 
was  such  a  little,  immature,  untrained  thing!  One 
would  have  expected  something  a  little  more  finished 
and  worldly  from  Lady  Wanley's  sister. 

Roma  liked  Sydney  very  much,  or  at  least  believed 
that  she  did,  but  she  could  not  understand  her  hav- 
ing the  slightest  attraction  for  Clive.  Still,  they 
must  go  their  way.  .  .  . 


222     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  in  the  days  that 
followed  she  used  to  say :  "Oh  no,  Clive.  Moreton 
and  I  can  perfectly  go  into  Venice  by  ourselves! 
It's  only  natural  that  you  two  young  things  should 
like  to  be  together.  You'd  much  better  take  little 
Miss  Flood  out  with  you  and  continue  her  educa- 
tion." 

Her  experience  with  Clive  was  that  he  so  soon 
wearied  of  that  deliberately  imposed  freedom.  It 
would  not  be  long  before  he  returned  to  Moreton 
and  herself  more  devoted  than  ever,  delighted  at 
having  regained  his  liberty,  and  enjoying  his  eman- 
cipation from  a  chain  that  was  perhaps  already  be- 
ginning to  gall. 

And  Sydney?  Well,  she  had  warned  Sydney, 
long  ago  when  she  had  come  to  see  her  in  London 
and  Clive  had  suddenly  appeared  and  resented  the 
presence  of  this  strange  girl. 

For  the  moment  Clive  took  advantage  of  Roma's 
permission.  "I  daresay  she's  feeling  a  bit  dull  all 
by  herself,"  he  would  reply,  a  little  surprised  per- 
haps at  Roma's  suggestion  which  coincided  so  ex- 
actly with  his  own  wishes  just  then.  But  she  had  a 
strange  gift  for  knowing  what  was  going  on  in  his 
mind.  It  was  almost  uncanny  at  times — this  pre- 
cise discernment  of  hers — and  it  had  before  now 
given  him  moments  of  uneasiness. 

He  went  up  to  Sydney's  studio  and  knocked  at 
the  door.  She  was  not  working  that  morning;  none 
of  her  artist's  paraphernalia  was  lying  about.  He 
wondered  what  she  was  doing.  Dreaming  perhaps. 
.  .  .  He  said: 

"I  hope  I'm  not  interrupting  you?  I  came  to 
ask  you  to  go  down  to  the  sands  with  me.  More- 
ton  and  Roma  have  gone  to  Venice." 

"You  didn't  go  with  them?"  she  said.  It  was  so 
rarely  they  went  without  him. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     223 

"No,  Roma's  given  me  a  holiday,"  he  told  her, 
smiling.  "Let's  spend  some  of  it  together,  at  any 
rate !" 

He  looked  down  at  her  and  laughed. 

"Yes,  I'll  come,"  said  Sydney. 

She  felt  vaguely  perplexed.  Clive  had  always 
seemed  to  wish  to  accompany  the  Cochranes  on 
their  expeditions.  Now,  he  spoke  of  being  given 
a  holiday.  And  she  had  had  the  absurd  idea  that 
Roma  hadn't  cared  for  them  to  see  too  much  of 
each  other. 

They  strolled  down  to  the  shore  and  sat  on  the 
sands,  watching  the  gay  characteristic  scene.  Be- 
fore them  stretched,  like  a  field  of  brilliant  un- 
broken blue,  the  wide  waters  of  the  Gulf  of  Venice 
— that  historic  sea  that  had  known  the  galleons 
and  argosies  of  long  past  days,  those  ships  engaged 
in  world-wide  trafficking  when  Venice  was  indeed 
Queen  of  the  Seas  and  ruled  them  with  royal  hand. 
But  this  scene  at  the  Lido,  with  its  touch  of  vul- 
garity, had  nothing  in  common  with  those  ancient, 
sober,  and  splendid  days.  The  sands  were  filled 
almost  from  end  to  end  with  bathing-machines. 
Boys  clad  in  a  scanty  loin  cloth  ran  gracefully  past, 
like  smooth-limbed  bronze  statues.  There  were 
women,  fresh  from  their  morning  dip,  walking  up 
and  down  in  brilliant-hued  bath-gowns.  Sometimes 
their  hair  was  confined  in  a  close  cap  of  bright- 
colored  silk,  sometimes  it  fell  over  their  shoulders 
in  sable  masses.  Men  and  women  were  swimming 
together  in  the  sea,  as  if  it  were  their  natural  ele- 
ment; their  superb  movements  seemed  to  be  per- 
formed wholly  without  effort.  Boys  would  emerge 
from  the  waves,  rub  themselves  lightly  with  hand- 
fuls  of  the  hot  sand,  and  fling  themselves  down  to 
smoke.  Sometimes  their  chests  and  backs  were  raw 
and  purple  with  blisters  caused  by  that  fierce  sun, 


224     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

and  made  them  look  as  if  they  were  suffering  from 
some  malignant  skin-disease. 

Over  there  on  the  far  horizon  the  Alps  showed 
dimly,  like  dream-mountains  enveloped  in  silver- 
spun  mists.  But  nearby  all  color  was  sharp,  de- 
fined, and  violent.  Sky  and  sea  were  deeply,  pas- 
sionately blue,  and  the  sun  shone  on  the  sails  of  the 
fishing  boats  till  they  looked  as  if  they  had  been 
fashioned  out  of  cloth-of-gold  and  silver.  The 
waves  broke  in  snow-colored  foam  on  sands  that 
were  brightly  yellow.  The  dark  heads  of  the  swim- 
mers bobbed  up  and  down  in  that  calm  sea.  They 
shouted  and  laughed  at  each  other. 

"You  ought  to  paint  this !"  said  Clive,  suddenly. 
"Paint  it  as  you  see  it  now  with  all  its  bright  pure 
color,  with  the  clear  hard  edges  to  everything,  even 
to  the  shadows.  Nothing  blurred  or  smudged,  but 
full  of  light." 

Sydney  pulled  out  a  small  block  which  she  nearly 
always  carried  with  her  for  the  purpose  of  jotting 
down  impressions.  She  began  to  draw,  first  the  mo- 
tionless sails  idly  poised  upon  that  sapphire  shield, 
the  far  outline  of  the  Alps,  the  stretch  of  sand,  and 
upon  it  a  scantily-clad  boy  who  ran  to  and  fro,  shout- 
ing and  laughing,  with  the  salt  drops  falling  from 
his  loose  black  hair.  In  a  few  deft  lines  she  caught 
the  life  and  motion  of  that  young  and  joyous  figure. 

It  was  the  merest  sketch,  scarcely  more  than  a 
few  lines,  but  her  pencil  was  rapid  and  practiced. 
Clive  watched  her.  It  seemed  so  wonderful  that 
those  ineffectual-looking  little  hands  .  .  .  She 
turned  her  face  to  him;  she  was  laughing:  "What 
would  Pinelli  say  to  that?"  she  said. 

Clive  thought  her  delicious  when  she  laughed. 
He  took  the  block  from  her  and  deliberately  tore 
off  the  sheet. 

"I  shall  keep  it,"  he  told  her. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     225 

He  gave  the  block  back  to  her,  and  in  doing  this 
his  hand  touched  hers.  They  looked  into  each  oth- 
er's eyes,  surprised,  almost  dismayed.  There  was 
a  brief  silence.  Clive  broke  it. 

"Sydney!" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"Of  course  we  don't  love  each  other,"  said  Clive, 
in  a  suffocated  tone  that  betrayed  great  emotion; 
"that  would  be  absurd!" 

Sydney  made  no  reply.  Indeed,  he  had  uttered 
the  statement  without  apparently  inviting  affirma- 
tion or  denial.  It  was  almost  as  if  he  had  impul- 
sively negatived  an  idea  that  had  just  occurred  to 
him  and  that  struck  him  as  inherently  fantastic. 

"Wouldn't  it?"  he  repeated. 

Sydney  felt  an  absolute  inability  to  speak.  She 
knew  then  that  she  loved  him.  She  lowered  her 
eyes,  aware  that  the  large  bright  glare  of  sea  and 
sky  hurt  them  like  the  stabbing  of  a  sword. 

"But  to-day  you  are  different,"  he  said.  "To- 
day .  .  ."  He  stopped,  and  then  stretched  out  his 
hand  and  touched  hers. 

She  thought  of  Duncan,  whose  touch  had  been 
powerless  to  evoke  the  thrill  of  joy  that  passed 
through  her  now  as  she  felt  Clive's  hand  upon  hers. 

"Just  now — when  you  laughed — you  made  me  be- 
lieve that  I  loved  you,"  said  Clive.  His  tone  was 
fierce,  strangled,  as  if  he  were  engaged  in  some  ob- 
scure, stern  struggle. 

Her  heart  beat.     They  were  as  alone  as  if  that 

fay  host  of  laughing,  leaping,  plunging  figures  had 
een  shadows  in  a  world  of  impalpable  light. 

She  was  afraid  that  he  might  discern  something 
of  the  joy  that  the  touch  of  his  hand  on  hers  was 
communicating  to  her. 

"Do  you  love  me,  Sydney?"  he  said,  and  his  hand 
pressed  hers  into  the  soft  sand. 


226     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

"Please — please  don't  talk  like  this !"  There  was 
urgent  entreaty  in  her  tone.  Roma's  words  came 
back  to  her  mind  like  wounding  arrows.  "Most 
women  who  knew  him  passed  through  the  phase 
of  falling  in  love  with  Clive."  Yes,  and  perhaps 
he  had  told  them  too  that  he  loved  them.  Her 
face  was  very  white  and  obstinately  set. 

"At  least,  let  me  tell  you  that  I  love  you,  Syd- 
ney. You  are  different  from  all  the  rest  of  the 
world!  Most  people  have  lost  their  ideals — but 
you've  kept  yours  wonderfully.  I've  never  met  any 
one  before  so  intensely  other-worldly — so  spiritual. 
.  .  .  I've  sometimes  seen  you  look  like  a  little  saint 
in  ecstasy.  ..." 

All  the  time  his  blue  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her 
face.  He  was  longing  to  discover  the  truth.  Did 
she  love  him?  She  was  oddly  on  her  guard,  doubt- 
ing, mistrustful.  Perhaps  Roma  had  warned  her. 

The  shadow  of  Roma  seemed  to  fall  between 
them.  Sydne^,  with  an  effort,  drew  her  hand 
sharply  away  from  the  little  grave  in  the  sand  where 
Clive  had  buried  it. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  he  repeated,  "for  I  love  you 
so  much,  Sydney.  I  want  you  to  be  my  wife.  I 
must  know.  ..." 

There  was  suffering — the  suffering  of  suspense — 
in  his  face. 

"Yes,  I  love  you,"  said  Sydney,  very  quietly. 

"You  will  marry  me?" 

"Yes,"  she  answered.  But  as  she  uttered  the  bald 
monosyllable,  he  felt  that  it  held  something  of  the 
solemnity  of  a  vow. 

To  Sydney  the  whole  thing  was  like  a  strange, 
beautiful,  yet  tormenting  dream.  She  was  aware 
that  this  was  the  climax  of  that  particular  period  of 
her  life.  She  had  never  thought  it  would  come  to 
her — this  love  of  Give's.  Even  then,  she  had  an 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     227 

inward  conviction,  based  perhaps  upon  Roma's 
words,  that  it  could  not  bring  her  happiness.  But 
it  was  unlike  Duncan's  love  because  it  peremptorily 
claimed  and  received  from  her  a  reciprocity  of 
affection. 

His  very  next  words  struck  chill  to  her  heart. 

"Would  you  consent — for  a  time  only — to  a  se- 
cret engagement?  I  think  for  the  present  it  would 
be  better  not  to  tell  either  Roma  or  Moreton." 

She  hesitated.  "If  you  wish  it,"  she  said,  in  a 
low  voice.  She  felt  then  how  entirely  her  happiness 
was  in  his  hands.  She  must  take  no  risks.  She 
would  do  as  he  desired. 

"It  will  simplify  things,"  he  told  her.  "We  could 
be  married  soon.  This  is  August — you  would  have 
to  go  home  first  perhaps — it  might  be  quite  early 
in  the  New  Year." 

"Yes,"  said  Sydney.  If  he  had  suggested  the  next 
day  she  would  probably  have  said  "yes"  in  exactly 
that  same  quiet,  acquiescent  tone. 

Married?  Yes,  she  would  be  happily  married 
like  Moira.  She  would  know,  too,  something  of 
that  passionate  happiness  that  love  could  bring,  and 
with  it  transform  all  things.  Once  she  had  regarded 
such  love  with  incredulity.  It  had  come  to  her 
now. 

"You  would  go  home,  between  this  and  then,  to 
your  mother,  wouldn't  you?"  said  Clive. 

"If  you  wanted  me  to,"  said  Sydney;  "it  wouldn't 
be  very  easy.  .  .  ." 

T'I  should  like  you  to  be  on  good  terms  with  your 
own  people,"  he  continued;  "I  hate  family  quar- 
rels." 

She  waited  a  moment  and  then  said: 

"You  won't  mind  my  becoming  a  Catholic?  You 
see,  I've  quite  settled  that  I  must  be  one." 

"I  shan't  mind — at  least  not  very  much.     Only,  I 


228     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

think  I'd  rather  you  didn't  do  anything  in  a  hurry. 
You're  so  impulsive,  Sydney.  .  .  ." 

"You  want  me  to  wait?"  There  was  disappoint- 
ment in  her  tone. 

"No.  You  must  do  just  as  you  like.  Only — 
it'll  make  a  difference  to  Moreton.  .  .  .  He's  most 
awfully  prejudiced — senselessly  prejudiced.  That 
sort  of  thing's  so  fearfully  out  of  date !" 

Sydney  lifted  her  head  and  said  with  a  touch 
of  arrogance: 

"Moreton  is  nothing  to  me !" 

"But  he's  something — rand  a  great  deal — to  me," 
said  Clive,  firmly.  "I'm  very  fond  of  him.  I  owe 
him  almost  everything." 

She  was  immediately  contrite.  "Yes — yes — I 
know.  But  it's  not  something  I  can  put  aside  out 
of  respect  for  Moreton." 

"I  don't  ask  you  to  do  that.  But  I  advise  you 
to  wait — even  perhaps  till  after  our  marriage." 

"I'm  not  sure.  .  .  .  Clive — I  feel  as  if  it  couldn't 
be  true.  I'm  not  used  yet  to  the  thought  of  your 
caring  for  me.  .  .  ." 

"What  a  fanciful  child  you  are !" 

"And  you're  quite  sure  it  must  be  a  secret?" 

"Yes — I've  explained.  Because  of  Moreton  and 
Roma.  They  mightn't  like  it.  I  don't  know  why. 
.  .  .  Roma's  all  right,  but  Moreton's  a  queer  old 
fish  sometimes !" 

"I'd  like  Roma  to  know,"  said  Sydney. 

"Well,  we  can't  tell  one  without  the  other." 

"Surely  Roma  will  be  pleased?  She's  so  fond  of 
us  both.  .  .  ."  She  said  the  words  almost  as  if 
they  were  a  challenge. 

Clive  glanced  at  her  pityingly. 

"You  don't  know  your  Roma,"  he  observed 
dryly. 

Sydney  stirred  restlessly.  She  felt  as  if  the 
bright  scene  in  front  of  her  had  become  suddenly 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     229 

a  little  cruel,  a  little  hard  in  its  resplendent  beauty. 
There  was  an  inherent  simplicity  in  her  character 
which  shrank  instinctively  from  secrets  and  intrigues. 
She  would  far  rather  have  risked  Roma's  displeas- 
ure than  have  kept  the  knowledge  of  their  engage- 
ment from  her.  She  wished  to  be  engaged  to  Clive 
openly,  so  that  if  need  be  the  whole  world  might 
know  of  it,  might  be  aware  of  the  love  that  had 
sprung  up  between  them.  For  love  only  blooms 
freely  in  the  light;  it  perishes  and  withers  in  dark 
places. 

"Oh,  let  me  go  away!"  she  said;  "I  mean — I 
don't  want  to  go  home,  at  least  not  yet.  But  I 
should  like  to  go  and  live  in  Venice,  and  work  for 
a  time  there  alone.  I  feel  I  can't  stay  under  their 
roof  and  not  tell  them.  It  wouldn't  be  possible. 
Surely  you  must  see  that?"  She  appealed  to  him 
almost  piteously. 

"You  must  do  as  you  please  about  that,"  said 
Clive,  who  felt  secretly  rather  relieved  at  the  idea. 
Many  difficulties  would  thus  be  evaded. 

"I've  once  or  twice  been  afraid — since  that  day 
you  spoke  to  me  about  going — that  I  was  staying 
too  long.  And  now  the  portrait's  finished,  there's 
really  no  need — r" 

"None  at  all,"  said  Clive.  "I'll  hunt  about  for 
a  couple  of  rooms  for  you." 

"They  must  be  very  cheap,  you  know.  You 
mustn't  settle  on  anything  without  telling  me  first 
exactly  how  much  it'll  cost.  I'm  so  afraid  of  ... 
of  debts.  .  .  ." 

"Are  you?"  said  Clive,  and  laughed  a  little.  He 
had  himself  long  ago  lived  down  that  fear.  When 
things  got  too  pressing,  he  invariably  appealed  to 
Moreton.  It  had  not  always  been  easy,  but  More- 
ton  generally  relented  and  came  to  the  rescue  in 
the  end,  although  at  first  he  was  wont  to  show  a 
justifiable  annoyance.  Yes,  Clive  reflected,  he  was 


230     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

under  immense  obligations  to  Moreton,  financial  and 
otherwise ;  it  would  never  do  to  risk  a  regular  breach. 
He  had  an  idea  that  his  cousins  expected  him  to 
make  a  wealthy,  brilliant  marriage — he  could  have 
done  so  before  now,  had  he  so  chosen.  They  would 
hardly  consider  Sydney's  little  fortune  adequate. 

"I  shall  hate  leaving  Roma,"  said  Sydney,  after 
a  little  pause. 

"Shall  you?"  There  was  pity  in  his  eyes.  Per- 
haps it  was  mingled  with  a  little  contempt  for  that 
obstinate  blindness  of  hers. 

"What  excuse  shall  I  make?" 

"You  might  say,  what  is  perfectly  true,  that  you 
think  you've  stayed  with  them  as  long  as  you  ought, 
and  that  you  want  to  make  a  start  alone." 

"And  when  I'm  gone,  perhaps  you'll  be  able  to 
tell  them?"  she  said  wistfully. 

"Dear  Sydney,  you  may  be  sure  that  I  shall  tell 
them  at  the  very  first  favorable  moment.  I  dislike 
intensely  having  secrets  from  either  of  them.  But 
I  know  them  both  far  better  than  you  do.  You 
mustn't  hurry  me.  .  .  ." 

"I've  never  lived  alone,"  she  said,  wondering 
what  her  mother  would  say  to  this  new  departure 
should  it  reach  her  ears.  Living  alone,  and  secretly 
engaged  to  Clive  Cochrane.  .  .  .  Visions  of  her 
mother's  displeasure  at  such  a  combination  passed 
chaotically  through  her  brain. 

"You'll  find  it's  perfectly  delightful,"  he  assured 
her. 

She  was  easily  ruled,  that  was  one  comfort.  He 
had  seized  rather  ruthlessly  upon  her  timid  sug- 
gestion that  she  ought  perhaps  to  go  away,  had  crys- 
tallized it  in  a  few  minutes  into  a  settled  determina- 
tion. He  wanted  her  to  leave  the  villa;  she  would 
be  safer  thus  out  of  Roma's  sight.  It  was  never 
a  simple  thing  to  hide  any  matter  from  Roma.  And 
she  had  a  light  way  of  scattering  dust  upon  other 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     231 

people's  idols.  She  wouldn't  approve,  and  she 
would  increase  Moreton's  inevitable  disapproval. 
Clive  told  himself  that  he  couldn't  risk  letting  Syd- 
ney suffer  at  their  hands.  He  loved  her — the  genius 
in  her,  the  ardent  soul.  And  somewhere  deeply  con- 
cealed in  his  heart  there  was  a  sincere  wish  to  change 
his  present  unsatisfactory  mode  o^  life,  so  restless, 
so  purposeless.  This  little  creature  seemed  to 
breathe  a  purer,  simpler  air.  He  wanted  to  marry 
her,  to  go  right  away  from  his  former  surround- 
ings. He  pictured  living  with  her  in  some  quiet 
country  house  in  England.  He  didn't  want  wealth. 
He  didn't  want  anything,  just  then,  that  belonged 
to  Roma's  world.  .  .  . 

"I  shall  mind  leaving  Roma,"  Sydney  said  again. 
This  thought  was  uppermost  in  her  mind,  teasing 
her  with  its  persistence.  She  knew  that  the  taking 
of  that  step  would  be  like  the  first  bitter  plunge 
of  the  swimmer  into  a  cold  and  unknown  sea.  Flesh 
and  spirit  alike  shrank  from  all  that  the  parting 
would  involve.  Hitherto,  she  had  so  determined 
that  her  departure  should  never  be  a  voluntary  thing 
on  her  part.  She  would  stay  until  Roma  asked  her 
to  go.  ...  And  all  the  time  she  had  tried  to  de- 
ceive herself,  had  assured  herself  that  nothing  was 
wrong,  that  Roma  was  quite  unchanged,  still  cared 
for  her,  and  wished  to  have  her  there. 

"Ah,  you'll  get  over  that,"  said  Clive,  with  easy 
confidence.  "I'm  going  to  take  Roma's  place  in  your 
life,  you  know.  I  shall  want  all  your  love  now,  my 
dear.  .  .  .  And  you  must  see  for  yourself  that 
Roma's  never  given  you  anything  like  what  you've 
lavished  upon  her  in  the  way  of  devotion  and  affec- 
tion." 

She  winced,  but  her  voice  was  steady  as  she  an- 
swered him.  "Yes,  I  can  see  that.  But  then  she's 
got  other  things — Moreton,  for  instance,  and — " 
She  stopped.  She  had  just  been  going  to  add,  "and 


232     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

yourself"  but  realized  it  would  be  an  indiscretion. 

"She  has  indeed  got  Moreton!"  said  Clive  de- 
risively. "My  dear  Sydney,  we  can  talk  to  each 
other  frankly  now,  can't  we?  You  must  have  seen 
— shut  up  in  your  attic  even  as  you  have  been—- 
that it  isn't  'roses,  roses,  all  the  way'  with  More- 
ton  !" 

"No — I've  often  thought  he  must  be  trying,"  she 
acknowledged  reluctantly.  "But  you're  fond  of 
them  both,  aren't  you?" 

Clive  looked  straight  in  front  of  him. 

"I'm  perfectly  devoted  to  them  both,"  he  said. 
"But  I  can't  suppress  my  critical  faculty  even  where 
objects  of  devotion  are  concerned.  I  can  see,  for 
instance,  that  Moreton  is  a  very  irritable  man — 
made  the  more  irritable,  no  doubt,  by  that  obscure 
heart-disease  which  he  always  holds  like  a  rod-in- 
pickle  over  us  all.  I  am  very  sorry  when  he's  really 
ill,  but  that  does  not  prevent  me  from  longing  to 
run  out  of  the  house,  where  I  can't  hear  him  call- 
ing me  every  five  minutes.  And  I  can  see  that  Roma 
is  the  most  beautiful  woman  in  the  world,  and  also 
one  of  the  most  selfish  and  luxurious.  They  are  a 
very  striking  couple,  and  I  admire  them  both  enor- 
mously, and  if  any  other  man  were  to  say  to  me  what 
I'm  saying  to  you  now,  I  should  most  certainly  knock 
him  down!" 

It  was  a  long  speech  for  Clive  to  make,  and  it 
threw  a  good  deal  of  light  upon  his  relations  with 
the  Cochranes.  For  Sydney,  since  their  mutual  con- 
fession of  love,  had  begun  to  perceive  in  that  an- 
cient intimacy  whose  ties  obviously  held  him  so 
strongly,  an  influence  that  he  could  not  quickly  nor 
easily  free  himself  from. 

She  rose  to  her  feet.  She  was  a  little  stiff  from 
sitting  there  so  long.  Clive  rose,  too,  and  gave  her 
his  hand,  helping  her  to  rise.  They  walked  along 
the  sands  in  rather  a  subdued  mood. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

WHEN  they  reached  the  high  iron  gates  of  the 
villa,  Clive  rang  the  bell,  and  the  sound  of 
its  pealing  seemed  to  echo  through  the  garden.  The 
gates  were  opened  from  within,  and  they  entered 
side  by  side  and  walked  slowly  up  the  path.  Clive 
stopped  in  the  shadow  of  a  grove  of  ilex  trees; 
he  drew  Sydney  rather  roughly  to  him  and  kissed 
her.  "Sydney- — Sydney — "  he  murmured.  He 
could  feel  that  she  trembled  under  his  touch,  but  her 
hands  clung  to  his. 

"My  dear,"  he  said,  "if  things  don't  go  quite 
smoothly  at  first,  you  must  promise  not  to  lose  your 
faith  in  me  or  in  my  love  for  you.  Promise  me 
that.  .  .  ."  There  was  an  urgency  in  his  tone  that 
struck  her  very  forcibly. 

"I  promise,"  said  Sydney. 

They  walked  very  slowly  up  to  the  house.  As 
they  drew  near,  they  saw  Roma  sitting  in  the  loggia, 
looking  at  some  English  papers.  The  large  sheets 
were  scattered  all  about  her. 

"Why,  how  early  you're  back,  Roma,"  said  Clive. 

To  see  her  there  made  him  feel  at  once  aston- 
ished and  a  little  uneasy. 

"Yes.  It's  because  Moreton  didn't  feel  very 
well.  He's  gone  up  to  his  room.  What  have  you 
two  been  doing?" 

"We've  been  sitting  on  the  sands,  watching  the 
people  bathing.  Why  didn't  "you  come  down  and 
look  for  us?" 

"I  didn't  know  where  you  were,"  said  Roma.  She 
threw  down  the  paper.  "Clive,  you'd  better  go  up 

233 


234     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

to  Moreton,  hadn't  you?  He's  been  asking  for 
you." 

"All  right.  I'll  run  up  and  have  a  look  at 
him.'; 

Clive  entered  the  house.  He  felt  that  he  could 
not  bear  the  calm  scrutiny  of  Roma's  gaze  just  then. 
The  existence  of  a  secret  between  himself  and  Syd- 
ney gave  him  a  guilty  sensation.  His  conscience 
was  not  quite  at  ease.  .  .  .  Sydney  was  right — it 
would  have  been  an  impossible  position  for  them 
to  remain  together  under  this  roof  without  openly 
acknowledging  their  engagement.  The  sooner  she 
went  away  the  better.  He  hoped  that  she  would 
decide  to  go  to  London  soon.  He  could  follow  her 
then  without  divulging  the  purpose  of  his  journey. 
He  would  go  into  Venice  this  very  day  and  hunt 
for  rooms  for  her.  He  was  too  intimate  with  the 
Cochranes  to  be  capable  of  hiding  anything  so  vital 
as  his  own  engagement  from  them.  They  would  not 
smile  upon  it — they  would  think  it  was  only  another 
of  his  foolish,  transient  love-affairs. 

When  he  had  disappeared,  Roma  turned  to  Syd- 
ney. There  was  a  slight  constrained  silence.  Then 
she  slipped  her  hand  in  Sydney's  arm  and  drew  her 
to  a  seat. 

"Enjoyed  your  morning  on  the  sands,  Sydney?" 

"Yes.  .  .  ." 

Her  face  burned  from  exposure  to  the  sun.  Her 
eyes  were  large  and  excited.  She  looked  happy,  and 
not  quite  normal. 

"My  dear  child — -you  ought  to  take  more  of  a 
holiday.  It  does  you  good.  Why,  you're  looking 
lovely  to-day." 

Sydney  laughed.  "I  wish  I  could  believe  it.  But 
you're  always  indulgent  to  me!" 

How  absurd  of  Clive  to  impose  this  secrecy  upon 
her.  She  felt  she  knew  Roma  far  better  than  he 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     235 

did.  He  had  no  idea  how  fond  of  her  Roma  really 
was!  .  .  . 

"I'm  not  flattering  you,"  said  Roma;  "you've 
changed  very  much  since  you  came  to  us.  Several 
people  have  noticed  it.  Even  Clive — " 

She  let  her  eyes  rest  on  Sydney's  face  then  with 
a  slow,  searching  scrutiny. 

"Yes?"  said  Sydney. 

"He  thinks  you're  very  pretty.  He  didn't  like 
your  hair  at  first — he  thought  it  too  childish — but 
now  he  says  he  loves  it.  You  know  you've  made 
quite  a  conquest  of  Clive." 

"Have  I?"  She  smiled.  "But,  Roma— I've 
been  thinking  it  over  very  seriously,  and  I've  come 
to  the  conclusion  that  it's  time  for  me  to  go  and 
live  in  Venice  and  study  seriously." 

Roma  dropped  her  light  hold  of  the  girl's  arm. 

"Live  in  Venice !" 

"Yes.     I  mustn't  have  any  more  holidays.  .  .  ." 

Roma  stood  gravely  considering  her.  She  was 
astonished,  and  she  felt  certain  that  something  had 
happened  to  cause  this  sudden  decision. 

It  was  fortunate  for  Sydney  that  she  possessed  a 
pale,  impassive  face  that  so  seldom  indicated  any- 
thing of  the  strange  thoughts  that  sometimes  filled 
her  brain. 

She  could  and  did  meet  Roma's  look  with  perfect 
calmness. 

"But  why  Venice  ?"  said  Roma.  "Why  don't  you 
take  your  knowledge  back  to  London?  You  can 
work  there  if  you  choose,  just  as  well  as  you  can 
here."  Her  voice  was  sort  and  tender,  and  yet 
Sydney  felt  that  there  was  an  urgency  in  it,  an  ap- 
peal, that  was  sharp  and  insistent. 

Sydney  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  not  yet!  I've  still  so  much  to  learn  here. 
And  I — I  love  Italy.  I  feel  as  if  I  never  wanted 


236     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

to  leave  it.  The  color — the  splendor!"  Her  eyes 
shone  enthusiastically. 

"Then  I  don't  quite  understand  why,  if  you  wish 
to  remain  in  Italy,  you've  taken  it  into  your  head 
to  leave  us."  There  was  a  faint  note  of  displeas- 
ure now  in  Roma's  tone,  as  if  she  felt  that  she  ought 
to  have  been  consulted  first.  "Of  course,  I  know 
we're  rather  gay,  worldly  people  and  we  haven't 
much  time  to  take  you  about.  Moreton,  as  you 
know,  is  obliged  to  combine  business  with  pleasure. 
People  will  never  leave  him  in  peace  even  when  he's 
on  a  holiday.  Perhaps  you  are  right,  and  workers 
are  best  alone  or  among  other  workers.  You  want 
an  incentive.  Still,  it's  been  nice  having  you." 

But  her  suspicions  were  nevertheless  strongly 
aroused.  She  was  convinced  that  Sydney  had  not 
made  this  deliberate  plan  quite  by  herself.  The  de- 
cision was  altogether  too  sudden.  Had  Clive  as- 
sisted her  in  making  it?  Had  he — hinted  at  any- 
thing? Or  was  she  merely  fleeing  from  the  slight 
malaise  consequent  upon  finding  herself  such  a  negli- 
gible quantity  in  their  household?  She  had  perhaps 
felt  that  she  was  de  trop — that  Roma  was  making 
some  personal  sacrifice  in  asking  Clive  to  amuse  her. 
Moreton's  fretful  weariness,  his  lack  of  courtesy 
about  the  portrait,  which  he  more  and  more  disliked, 
and  indeed  could  hardly  bear  to  hear  mentioned,  had 
been  perhaps  too  much  for  Sydney's  endurance.  But 
Roma  in  her  heart  did  not  believe  that  Sydney's  real 
reason  for  leaving  them  had  anything,  to  do  with 
Moreton. 

"What  does  Clive  think  of  the  plan?  You've 
told  him,  of  course?"  She  fell  back  upon  direct 
questioning,  and  there  was  a  new  alertness  in 
her  tone. 

"Oh,  yesr — we  were  talking  about  it  this  morning." 

"And  he  approves?" 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     237 

"I — I  think  so.  He's  going  to  look  for  rooms  for 
me.  It  is  very  kind  of  him.  I  should  never  know 
how  to  set  about  it!" 

"He  likes  doing  kind  things,"  said  Roma.  "I  tell 
him  he  puts  himself  out  too  much  for  people." 

And  again  there  sounded  in  her  voice  that  faint 
note  of  displeasure. 

"I  told  him  they  must  be  quite  cheap.  You  see, 
I  can't  afford  much." 

"Have  you  got  any  money?"  inquired  Roma. 

She  felt  that  she  really  could  not  let  Sydney  go 
penniless  into  a  world  that  had  become  so  expensive, 
where  indeed  the  necessities  of  life  had  become  as 
costly  almost  as  its  luxuries,  and  were  even  more 
difficult  to  obtain. 

"Not  very  much."  Sydney  smiled  cheerfully. 
Poverty  had  no  terrors  for  her.  She  had  had  no 
experience  of  its  sharper  aspects  of  hunger  and  cold. 
"But  I  shall  work  and  sell  things.  Even  if  I  don't 
get  much  for  them  at  first,  it  would  all  be  a  help." 

"I  think  I  can  persuade  Moreton  to  buy  that  por- 
trait you  did  of  me.  He  doesn't  like  it,  as  you  know, 
but  he'd  rather  have  it  than  feel  it  might  fall  into 
other  hands.  I'll  get  him  to  give  you  as  good  a  price 
as  I  can." 

Sydney  flushed,  and  threw  back  her  head  with  a 
little  gesture  of  arrogant  refusal. 

"It  is  not  for  sale,"  she  said;  "it  will  remain  in 
my  hands.  I  should  never  dream  of  selling  it  to 
Moreton  or  any  one  else !" 

She  remembered  Clive's  words — that  Moreton 
would  put  it  in  a  box-room  with  its  face  to  the  wall, 
if  it  escaped  his  knife.  She  was  indignant  at  Roma's 
suggestion,  and  a  little  angry,  too,  at  the  careless 
half-patronizing  way  in  which  it  had  been  made. 

"Oh,  very  well.  If  you  think  like  that  about  it,  I 
won't  mention  it  to  him,"  said  Roma,  astonished  at 


238     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

the  little  outburst.  "But  don't  starve  yourself, 
Sydney  dear.  You  mustn't  lose  your  pretty 
looks." 

"Oh,   I  shan't  starve,"   said  Sydney  confidently. 

It  was  that  careless  confidence  of  hers  that 
alarmed  Roma.  She  evidently  thought  it  was  going 
to  be  so  easy — -this  life  of  work  with  hardly  any 
money  to  live  upon. 

"I  do  wish  I  could  persuade  you  to  go  back  to 
your  mother.  Why,  we  are  nearly  in  September, 
and  you  came  with  us  at  the  beginning  of  April. 
Five  months.  ...  I  shall  miss  you  dreadfully, 
Sydney!" 

She  drew  the  girl  to  her  and  kissed  her,  pushing 
back  the  short  thick  hair  with  her  hand,  in  her  old 
caressing  way.  "I  hope  Clive  hasn't  been  persuading 
you  to  go?  I'm  afraid  he's  been  a  little  jealous  of 
your  apparently  permanent  position  with  us.  I  told 
you  he  was  like  a  spoilt  child — always  wants  his  own 
way,  and  is  so  wayward  and  unreasonable  and  capri- 
cious if  he  can't  have  it!" 

Sydney  was  looking  at  her  with  startled  eyes.  Did 
she  guess  anything?  Was  she  trying  to,  "precher  le 
faux  pour  entendre  le  vrai?"  Her  words  sounded 
so  simple.  They  were  mere  repetitions  of  what  she 
had  often  been  heard  to  say  before.  But  now?  .  .  . 
She  was  afraid  of  Roma  at  that  moment.  .  .  .  She 
believed  with  Clive  that  Roma  would  dislike  their 
engagement.  .  .  . 

Sydney  had  then  an  agonizing  impulse  to  make  a 
full  confession  of  the  happenings  of  that  morning,  to 
blurt  out :  "I'm  going  because  he  has  asked  me  to  be 
his  wife  and  I  have  promised  to  marry  him!  I'm 
going  because  Clive  loves  me !"  and  face  the  conse- 
quences. She  did  not  wish  to  have  secrets  from 
Roma.  After  all,  was  she  not  her  friend?  Wouldn't 
she  rejoice  in  her  happiness — this  great  overwhelm- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     239 

ing  happiness  that  seemed  far  too  wonderful  to  be 
true?  She  wanted  to  tell  Roma  that  truth  that 
seemed  too  great  almost  to  be  borne :  Clive  loves  me. 

But  Clive  had  enjoined  secrecy;  had  told  her  that 
he  knew  the  Cochranes  better  than  she  did.  She 
must  not  disobey  him — her  hold  upon  him  was  too 
slight.  To  speak  the  truth  frankly  to  Roma  might 
forever  destroy  the  delicate  fabric  of  that  new 
dream.  The  impulse  passed,  checked  by  a  grim 
little  effort  that  hardened  the  close  firm  lines  of  her 
mouth  so-  that  it  suddenly  lost  something  of  its  child- 
ish softness. 

It  was  a  bitter  little  moment  for  Sydney.  She  saw 
that  her  friendship  for  Roma — the  first  great  and 
intimate  friendship  of  her  life — was  at  war  with  her 
new  passionate  devotion  to  Clive.  She  couldn't  hope 
to  keep  them  both.  They  were  unable  to  exist  com- 
fortably side  by  side.  But  it  was  her  new  feeling  for 
Clive,  called  into  sudden  passionate  life  by  his  words 
of  love,  that  obstinately  triumphed.  And  the  knowl- 
edge hurt  her.  dive's  love  had  to-day  conquered 
the  place  that  Roma  held  in  her  heart.  Now  faced 
by  a  Roma,  apparently  determined  to  learn  the 
truth  of  what  she  must  certainly  dimly  suspect,  Syd- 
ney was  acutely  conscious  of  a  sense  of  disloyalty 
that  shamed  her.  The  fresh  shifting  of  values  had 
deposed  Roma  from  her  ancient  high  place.  To 
Sydney  she  seemed  at  that  moment  almost  like  an 
enemy  who  was  capable  of  separating  her  from 
Clive.  The  thought  was  hateful.  She  longed  to 
fling  herself  at  Roma's  feet,  and  ask  her  pardon  for 
having  harbored  it  even  for  a  second. 

The  rapid  manner  in  which  the  situation  at  the 
villa  had  developed  and  evolved  had  not  been  ef- 
fected without  a  sharp  conflict  that  tore  its  way 
through  her  new  happiness,  rending  it  a  little.  She 
was  aware  of  infidelity.  She  wasn't  faithful.  .  .  , 


24o     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

She  changed.  .  .  .  And  now  she  couldn't  even  tell 
Roma  the  truth. 

Roma's  high  sweet  voice  fell  with  an  accent  of 
tender  reproach  upon  her  ear. 

"Dear  child,  I  mustn't  tease  you  with  all  these 
questions.  Especially  when  I  see  quite  well  that  you 
can't  tell  me  your  real  reason  for  leaving  us  so 
suddenly." 

Sydney  hardened  her  heart  against  the  caressing, 
reproachful  voice.  It  seemed,  however,  to  touch  her 
to  the  quick.  .  .  . 

"I  want  to  work!  Sooner  or  later  I  must  be  inde- 
pendent. It's  most  awfully  good  of  you  to  have  put 
up  with  me  for  so  long!"  she  said. 

The  commonplace  words  seemed  to  relieve  the 
sharp  tension  of  the  situation. 

"You'll  tell  your  mother,  of  course?  Lady  Flood 
may  be  angry  with  you,  but  she  has  a  right  to  know 
your  plans — to  know  where  you  are.  You're  not 
quite  the  kind  of  girl  to  be  independent,  Sydney — to 
live  alone  in  the  way  you  propose  to  do.  You've 
always  been  sheltered.  And  you  let  yourself  be  too 
easily  influenced  both  by  things  and  people.  .  .  . 
Perhaps  we  were  wrong,  after  all,  to  persuade  you 
to  come  with  us.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  us,  you  would 
have  been  in  London  now,  and  perhaps  you  would 
already  have  married  that  nice  Mr.  Turner  who 
was  so  devoted  to  you." 

Sydney  shook  her  head,  smiling. 

"We  shouldn't  have  been  happy.  .  .  ." 

She  knew  now  what  love  could  mean.  That  weak, 
sisterly  liking  she  had  had  for  Duncan  couldn't  be 
compared  to  it. 

Roma  smiled.  "He  would  have  made  an  excellent 
husband.  You  mustn't  expect  romance  in  marriage, 
Sydney;  it  falls  to  the  lot  of  few  of  us.  We  ought 
to  aim  at  comfort  not  ecstasy,  as  Dickens  said." 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     241 

"I'm  so  very  glad  I  didn't  marry  him,"  Sydney 
declared,  with  a  new  decision.  "It  was  a  most  fortu- 
nate escape.  I've  got  you  to  thank  for  that,  Roma  I" 

They  broke  off  on  this  more  normal  note.  A  ser- 
vant came  to  tell  Mrs.  Cochrane  that  Moreton 
wanted  her,  and  she  went  quickly  upstairs.  Sydney 
was  thus  able  to  escape  to  her  own  room,  and  for 
the  first  time  since  her  engagement  she  found  her- 
self quite  alone.  She  felt  almost  sick  with  excite- 
ment. It  was  quite  true  that  Clive  loved  her ;  he  had 
told  her  so.  All  these  days  she  had  so  hoped,  and 
then  had  put  the  hope  firmly  from  her  because,  of 
course,  it  was  impossible.  Now  she  was  his  affianced 
wife.  It  didn't  seem  to  be  quite  true.  He  loved 
her,  but  would  it  last?  Was  there  anything  in  her 
to  command  the  love  of  such  a  man  as  that?  She 
had  a  low  opinion  of  her  own  attraction;  it  had  been 
obscured  all  her  life  by  the  presence  of  Moira's 
brilliant  and  unquestionable  beauty.  Surely,  Clive 
would  regret  those  impulsive  speeches  in  which  he 
had  assured  her  of  his  love?  It  was  impossible  that 
he  could  really  love  her.  And  even  if  he  did,  people 
would  certainly  try  to  take  him  away  from  her. 
People  to  whom  he  was  bound  by  long,  close,  inti- 
mate ties  of  gratitude  and  affection.  .  .  . 

But  if  he  changed  his  mind  now,  it  would  kill  her. 
She  was  quite  sure  of  that.  She  couldn't  live  with- 
out Clive. 

She  looked  across  the  broad  pale  spaces  of  the 
lagoon,  and  discovered  that  her  eyes  were  swimming 
with  tears.  It  was  the  abrupt  closing  down  of  this 
radiant  chapter  of  her  life,  she  told  herself,  that 
made  her  weep. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

"TtyTAY  I  come  in?    Are  you  busy,  Sydney?" 

1VJL  Clive  stood  at  the  door  of  the  studio  on 
the  following  morning.  Sydney  had  just  finished  her 
first  meal  of  coffee  and  toast.  She  was  generally 
astir  before  any  one  else  in  the  house. 

dive's  face  was  flushed  and  eager;  there  was 
something  almost  of  the  embarrassed  school-boy  in 
his  bearing. 

Since  yesterday,  after  their  return  from  the  sands, 
they  had  had  no  word  alone  together.  Moreton  had 
claimed  him  inexorably  till  far  into  the  night.  And 
never  had  he  felt  his  cousin's  exigence  so  strongly, 
never  had  it  been  to  him  so  galling,  so  unwelcome. 
Sometimes  it  had  almost  seemed  to  him  that  More- 
ton  was  purposely  detaining  him,  keeping  him  away 
from  Sydney  as  if  he  detected  dive's  new  desire  to 
be  with  her. 

"Come  in,"  said  Sydney  simply. 

She  wore  her  faded  blue  over-all,  and  in  this 
familiar  garb  she  always  appeared  to  Clive  especially 
young  and  childish.  Her  bare  neck  and  arms — sucn 
thin  arms ! — Jier  silken  bobbed  hair,  the  grave,  inno- 
cent, attentive  eyes,  belonged  utterly  to  youth  in  its 
first  sweet  delicious  dawning.  Although  he  did  not 
know  it,  it  was  this  very  quality  of  youth,  that  at- 
tracted him  so  powerfully  to  her. 

He  shut  the  door  and  held  out  his  arms.  "Little 
Sydney,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  that  held  a  charming 
tenderness  not  untouched  with  homage,  "little  Syd- 
ney— I've  been  waiting  for  this  moment.  .  .  ."  He 
pulled  her  close  to  him.  She  seemed  to  nestle  like  a 
homing  bird. 

242 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     243 

And  she  thought  to  herself:  "He  does  love  me — 
I  ought  never  to  have  doubted  him." 

All  night  she  had  lain  awake,  rehearsing  with  still 
something  of  incredulity  that  conversation  on  the 
sands.  It  had  seemed  too  much  like  a  dream,  im- 
possible, incredible.  But  his  presence  here  now — 
that  something  at  once  timid  and  eager  in  his  attitude 
— reassured  her.  She  was  much  the  calmer  of 
the  two. 

The  room  was  in  disorder.  Canvases  were  piled 
together;  an  open  trunk  gaped  in  one  corner.  There 
was  an  acrid  odor  of  turpentine  and  oil  paint. 

"I've  begun  to  pack,"  she  explained,  as  his  eye 
traveled  swiftly  over  the  scene. 

"Already?  But  you  haven't  found  a  place  yet.  I 
shall  try  and  go  to-day  to  hunt  for  something.  '  He 
frowned.  It  wasn't  so  easy  to  get  away,  owing  to 
Moreton's  illness.  "Is  it  really  so  necessary  for  you 
to  go  ?  Somehow,  I  feel  as  if  you'd  slip  out  of  my 
sight  forever !" 

"Oh,  it's  quite  necessary.  You  see,  I've  told 
Roma  that  I'm  going!" 

"That  was  indeed  a  burning  of  the  boats,"  said 
Clive,  to  whom  Roma  had  not  mentioned  the  fact. 
"What  did  she  say?" 

"Not  very  much.  .  .  .  She  seemed  displeased, 
and  yet,  I'm  sure  it  was  a  relief  to  her." 

"Of  course  she  asked  you  why?" 

"Yes.    And  she  asked  me  if  you  approved." 

"If  I  approved?"  he  repeated,  in  a  dismayed  tone. 
"But  of  course  she  didn't  guess  anything?" 

"I    don't    think    she    did.      But    she — she    puz- 


"You  were  very  careful  what  you  said?  You 
gave  her  no  idea?" 

But  he  was  aware,  alas,  of  Roma's  keen  knife-like 
discernment. 


244     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

"I  was  very  careful  indeed," 

Her  heart  sank.  Did  Roma  matter  so  much? 
Why  couldn't  he  be  perfectly  frank  with  the  Coch- 
ranes  ?  After  all,  he  was  not  their  son — they  had  no 
real  right  to  dictate  to  him.  He  was  free — free. 

She  said  impulsively:  "Oh,  Clive!  Let's  tell 
them.  .  .  ." 

Clive  moved  across  the  room  to  the  window  and 
looked  out,  apparently  immersed  in  thought. 

"No,  Sydney,"  he  said,  "it  isn't  at  all  a  good  mo- 
ment. Moreton  is  ill  and  it  would  be  rather  a  shock 
to  him.  You  see,  they've  always  wanted  me  to 
marry  money — I've  so  little  of  my  own,  and  I'm 
afraid  I'm  extravagant." 

Across  the  sea  the  Alps  were  just  emerging  dimly 
but  beautifully  from  the  silver-spun  mists  of  morn- 
ing. A  ripple  of  sunlight  touched  the  water  to 
fragile,  sparkling  gold. 

"Couldn't  you  come  with  me  when  I  go  and  look 
for  rooms?"  he  said. 

He  felt  disinclined  to  leave  Sydney  alone  with 
Roma  that  day. 

She  shook  her  head.  "I  must  pack — there's  a 
great  deal  to  do.  If  you  think  it's  better  not  to  tell 
them,  I'd  rather  go  away  quite  soon.  I  hate  having 
secrets  from  people." 

"You  are  scrupulous,"  said  Clive.  "One  can't  tell 
people  everything,  even  one's  dearest  friends." 

"It  isn't  easy  to  keep  a  secret  from  Roma." 

"Oh,  so  you've  found  that  out?  Well,  anyhow 
I'm  going  to  keep  this  one  from  her." 

He  crossed  the  room,  hunted  among  Sydney's 
paintings,  and  drawing  forth  Roma's  portrait  set  it 
on  the  easel. 

"Are  you  going  to  let  me  have  it?" 

"No.    For  the  present  I  want  to  keep  it." 

"It'll  be  mine  when  we  are  married,"  said  Clive; 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     245 

"we'll  hang  it  up  hi  our  dining-room."  He  stooped 
and  kissed  Sydney  again,  kissing  too  the  top  of  her 
blond  head. 

Sydney  trembled  a  little  under  his  touch. 

"We  must  be  married  very  soon,"  said  Clive. 
"I  want  you  to  go  home  as  soon  as  you  can.  Just 
stay  in  Venice  a  few  weeks,  and  then  make  some  ex- 
cuse to  leave." 

He  was  anxious  for  that  reconciliation  between 
Sydney  and  her  mother.  He  liked  Wanley,  and  he 
had  been  told  that  his  wife  was  an  enchanting  crea- 
ture. He  wished  to  be  on  good  terms  with  them. 

But  it  was  exactly  on  this  point  that  he  felt  Syd- 
ney's obstinacy,  and  realized  that  it  would  not  be 
quite  easy  to  induce  her  to  take  the  first  step  towards 
a  reconciliation.  He  could  extract  no  promise  from 
hen.  She  was  always  silent  when  he  suggested  it. 
Silent  as  she  was  now,  with  her  fair  brow  puckered 
in  deep  thought. 

There  was  a  light  tap  at  the  door  and  Roma  came 
into  the  room. 

"Why,  Sydney?  And  Clive!  What,  packing  al- 
ready, my  dear  child?  You  are  in  a  hurry  to 
leave  us!" 

Clive  stood  there,  regarding  Roma  with  a  singu- 
larly impassive  expression  on  his  face  that  had  sud- 
denly grown  a  little  hard  and  set.  He  saw  the  two 
women  side  by  side,  and  wondered  at  the  rash,  sud- 
den friendship  that  had  once  brought  them  together. 
All  trace  of  that  so  recent  outburst  of  love  and  ten- 
derness had  gone  from  him. 

Roma  was  looking  fresh  and  beautiful  this  morn- 
ing in  a  loose  dress  of  white  embroidery  that  was  as 
fine  as  a  handkerchief.  She  was  all  in  white,  down 
to  her  little  suede  shoes.  Beside  her  Sydney  looked 
more  than  ever  like  a  child,  with  her  straight  slight 
undeveloped  form,  her  short  fine  hair. 


246     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

"Oh,  it  isn't  that,  Roma,"  Sydney  was  saying, 
"only,  you  know,  I  feel  as  if  I'd  stayed  with  you  an 
unconscionable  time.  But  it  has  slipped  away  so 
quickly.  .  .  ." 

"I  tell  Sydney  she  had  far  better  go  back  to  her 
mother,  Clive,"  said  Roma.  "She's  not  the  sort  to 
live  alone,  especially  out  here,  when  she  hardly  knows 
any  Italian." 

"I  shall  learn,"  said  Sydney  cheerfully. 

It  was  wonderful  how  bright  everything  looked  to 
her  to-day,  especially  since  her  little  interview  with 
Clive.  He  had  chased  all  her  tormenting  doubts 
away.  Even  that  one  which  was  based  on  her  own 
unworthiness  of  his  love. 

"I  doubt  if  you'll  find  rooms,"  continued  Roma, 
"Venice  is  frightfully  full.  Besides,  like  every  other 
place  it's  suffering  from  a  housing  crisis.  Why  are 
there  so  many  more  people  in  the  world  now  than 
there  were  before  the  War?" 

"More  people  and  fewer  houses,"  said  Clive, 
speaking  for  the  first  time.  "Perhaps  you  don't 
realize  there  were  five  million  refugees  from  the 
Veneto  after  Caporetto?  Anyhow,  I'm  going  to 
Venice  to-day  to  try  to  hunt  up  something  for  Miss 
Flood." 

As  he  spoke,  he  moved  towards  the  door. 

"Are  you  going  now,  Clive?"  said  Roma. 

"Yes." 

"Shan't  you  bathe  ?'\ 

"No — I  had  a  dip  quite  early." 

"What  a  pity — it's  such  a  perfect  morning  for 
a  swim." 

"But  I  mustn't  lose  any  time.  By  the  way,  how's 
Uncle  Moreton  to-day?" 

"Better.  But  he  had  a  restless  night.  I  think  he 
wanted  you  to  write  some  letters  for  him  this 
morning." 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     247 

"I'll  look  in  on  my  way  down."  Clive  had  reached 
the  top  of  the  stairs. 

"It's  much  too  hot  for  house-hunting,"  pro- 
tested Roma. 

"When  a  thing's  got  to  be  done,  it's  better  to  do 
it,"  he  answered. 

"Don't  be  trite,  Clive !"  Roma  said,  laughing. 

He  vanished  down  the  stairs.  Roma  did  not  stir. 
She  stood  there  looking  surprised  and  a  trifle  an- 
noyed. She  had  wanted  to  bathe  this  morning,  and 
she  could  not  remember  that  Clive  had  ever  disap- 
pointed her  before,  when  she  had  definitely  expressed 
a  wish.  He  must  be  in  a  hurry  to  get  rid  of  Sydney. 
She  wondered  why.  Was  there  some  secret  pact 
between  them?  Why  had  he  paid  her  such  an  early 
visit  to  the  studio  ?  She  had  not  expected  to  see  him 
there.  What  could  he  find  to  talk  about  to  little 
Sydney  Flood?  .  .  . 

"Well,  my  dear  Sydney,  I  hope  for  your  sake  he'll 
be  able  to  find  something  to  suit  you.  If  you  could 
only  have  put  up  with  us  for  a  few  more  weeks  we 
should  have  been  moving  on  somewhere  else  our- 
selves. Moreton  always  wants  to  go  away  directly 
when  he  gets  ill  in  a  place,  and  this  is  the  second  at- 
tack he's  had  this  summer." 

"I  do  hope  he'll  soon  be  better,"  said  Sydney. 

"When  he's  ill,  he  always  wants  Clive.  I  wish 
you  hadn't  asked  him  to  look  for  rooms  for  you  just 
to-day.  You  could  have  waited." 

"But  it  was  his  own  suggestion,"  said  Sydney. 
She  felt  that  Roma  was  purposely  putting  her  in  the 
wrong.  She  was  offended  with  her  for  some  reason. 
.  .  .  Perhaps  it  was  because  she  had  discovered 
Clive  there. 

Roma  sat  down  near  the  window. 

"You  must  be  quite  sure  to  tell  Lady  Flood  that 
you  made  all  these  plans  for  leaving  us  without  con- 


248     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

suiting  me.  Lord  Wanley  said  he  didn't  think  she 
understood  you — was  inclined  to  be  hard  on  you. 
But  mothers  do  generally  understand  their  own  chil- 
dren better  than  any  one,  and  I'm  sure  she  must  have 
discovered  that  you  were  inclined  to  be — shall  1  say 
obstinate?  Fond  of  your  own  way?"  Her  eyes 
rested  upon  Sydney's  pallid  face. 

Sydney  felt  a  lump  rising  in  her  throat.  This 
change  in  Roma's  manner  was  almost  more  than  she 
could  bear.  Was  it  true  that  she  did  not  know  her 
— had  never  known  her?  She  said  meekly: 

"I  didn't  want  to  annoy  you,  Roma.  I  ,only 
thought  the  time  had  come  for  me  to  go.  Perhaps  I 
ought  to  have  mentioned  it  to  you  first." 

"Yes — I  think  you  should  have  consulted  me,  be- 
fore you  told  Clive,  for  example.  But  you  mustn't 
think  you've  annoyed  me.  I  only  felt  anxious  about 
your  future — quite  alone  like  that  with  so  little 
money.  I  wish  I  could  persuade  you  to  sell  that  por- 
trait of  me  to  Moreton — he  will  give  you  a  hundred 
pounds  for  it,  he  says." 

"No — -no !  Roma,  please  don't  speak  of  it.  I'm 
not  going  to  sell  it  to  Moreton  or  any  one.  I'm 
going  to  keep  it.  .  .  ."  Sydney  was  flushed  with  ex- 
citement and  anger.  She  believed  that  Moreton 
wished  to  buy  the  picture  so  that  he  might  destroy 
it.  And  as  long  as  she  lived,  she  felt  that  she  would 
never  do  anything  so  good,  so  worth  while  again. 

"Of  course,  you  won't  exhibit  it  without  his 
permission?" 

"Of  course  not." 

Roma  put  her  hand  on  Sydney's  shoulder  and  said 
in  a  changed  voice:  "I  do  really  believe  that  you 
care  for  me,  Sydney.  You're  such  a  loyal  affec- 
tionate little  soul.  I  think  you'd  rather  starve  than 
part  with  that  picture.  Perhaps  it  may  comfort  you 
to  know,  too,  that  both  Clive  and  I  think  it  quite 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     249 

extraordinarily  clever.  Our  opinions  are  worth 
nothing  in  comparison  to  Moreton's,  1  know,  but 
Cliye  isn't  a  bad  judge.  He  says  it's  the  psycho- 
logical content  of  this  portrait  that  makes  it  so 
valuable." 

Sydney  listened  in  silence. 

Roma  rose  and  said:  "Well,  my  dear,  you 
mustn't  be  offended  at  anything  I've  said.  One 
forgets  you're  not  quite  a  child — it's  a  temptation 
sometimes  to  scold  you."  She  drew  Sydney  to  her 
and  kissed  her  cheek  lightly.  "I've  loved  having 
you  and  I  shall  miss  you,"  she  added,  with  a  touch  of 
her  old  caressing  tenderness. 

When  she  had  gone  downstairs,  Sydney  resumed 
her  packing.  Her  eyes  were  swimming  with  tears. 
She  could  hardly  bear  Roma's  kindness,  whereas  her 
severity  made  things  seem  in  a  sense  easier.  But  when 
Roma  spoke  in  that  caressing  way,  it  made  her  feel 
like  a  traitor.  It  was  cruel  of  Clive  to  impose  this 
obligation  of  secrecy  upon  her.  It  was  degrading 
that  she  could  not  speak  frankly  to  Roma;  it  made 
her  feel  guilty  in  her  presence,  as  if  sh«  had  done 
something  shameful. 

She  was  alone  most  of  that  day.  She  and  Roma 
lunched  together  in  solitude.  Roma  was  preoccupied 
about  Moreton,  who  did  not  seem  so  well,  and  was, 
she  said,  very  fretful.  He  wanted  Clive,  and  Clive 
had  not  come  back. 

"I  oughtn't  to  have  let  him  go,"  Roma  said  once. 

It  was  their  absolute  dominion  over  him  and  his 
movements  that  alarmed  Sydney.  She  felt  she  would 
never  be  able  to  wean  him  completely  from  these  old 
ties  and  associations.  Her  heart  sank  a  little  at 
each  fresh  piece  of  evidence  of  their  complete  de- 
pendence upon  him  at  critical  moments  like  the 
present. 

Yet,  surely,  they  couldn't  expect  to  keep  him  al- 


250     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

ways  thus  at  their  beck  and  call?  He  was  no  longer 
a  boy;  he  had  a  right  to  live  his  own  life.  Only,  he 
was  to  a  certain  extent  dependent  upon  them  for 
money.  Sydney's  thoughts  revolved  in  a  painful 
circle;  she  did  not  see  a  clear  path  before  her.  She 
was  not  very  hopeful  about  her  ability  to  detach 
Clive.  There  would  inevitably  be  a  struggle,  per- 
haps a  painful  and  protracted  one.  When  she  looked 
at  Roma,  all  hope  of  victory  left  her. 

Clive  came  back  at  tea-time.  Roma  and  Sydney 
were  having  it  in  the  garden.  Moreton  was  still  too 
ill  to  leave  his  room. 

Clive  joined  them  under  the  trees,  and  flung  him- 
self upon  a  long  chair. 

Roma  gave  him  a  cup  of  tea,  and  then  said: 

"Well?    Any  luck,  Clive?" 

"Yes,  I've  found  a  place,"  said  Clive.  "Nothing 
wonderful,  and  it  is  up  at  the  top  of  the  house — 
there  are  lots  of  stairs  to  climb.  But  there's  a  view 
across  the  lagoon,  and  from  the  balcony  you  can  see 
the  Grand  Canal  and  Santa  Maria  della  Salute." 

"It  sounds  charming,"  said  Roma.  She  looked  at 
Sydney.  "When  can  Sydney  have  them?" 

"As  soon  as  ever  she  likes,"  said  Clive.  He  drank 
his  tea,  and  then  began  to  relate  the  day's  happen- 
ings jwith  something  of  boyish  enthusiasm.  He 
hadn't  seen  anything  that  was  remotely  possible  until 
he  came  across  a  friend  who  told  him  of  these 
rooms,  exactly  suited  to  an  artist.  They  were  only 
just  vacant.  It  was  so  difficult  to  find  anything 
now. 

"And  I  shall  come  and  help  you  to  fix  them  up," 
he  said,  turning  to  Sydney.  "You'll  have  to  get  a 
few  things  to  make  them  comfortable.  The  bed- 
room's a  mere  slit,  but  the  studio  isn't  bad.  There's 
hardly  any  furniture — nothing  but  absolute  necessi- 
ties, and  you'll  have  to  do  your  own  cooking  over  a 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     251 

stove,  or  else  go  out  to  your  meals,  which  I  expect 
would  be  the  best  plan.  The  woman  who  lets  them 
will  keep  them  clean  for  you." 

"We'll  all  go  and  look  at  them  to-morrow,"  said 
Roma,  leaning  back  in  her  chair.  "I'm  sure  I  can 
give  you  some  pots  and  pans,  Sydney.  We'll  search 
the  lumber  room  in  Venice — I  know  we've  got  some 
tables  there,  and  a  chair  or  two." 

"That'll  be  awfully  kind  of  you,"  said  Clive,  be- 
fore Sydney  could  frame  her  thanks  in  words. 

"You  will  be  able  to  concentrate  all  your  attention 
upon  your  work  now,  Sydney,"  said  Roma  with  a 
laugh.  "Moreton  has  always  said  that  an  attic  and 
a  touch  of  privation  might  develop  your  talent  better 
than  anything." 

"Well,  she'll  have  the  attic  right  enough,"  said 
Clive  pleasantly,  "but  I  hope  there  will  be  as  few 
privations  as  possible.  You  must  always  let  us  know 
if  you  are  running  short  of  supplies.  I  promise  to 
be  a  benevolent  raven !  You  let  down  your  basket, 
Italian-fashion,  from  the  top  window- — I  put  the 
food  into  it — you  draw  it  up  again — and  there 
you  are !" 

They  all  laughed,  and  then  Roma  said:  "Well, 
Sydney,  when  do  you  intend  to  go  there?" 

And  again  it  was  Clive  who  answered. 

"The  rooms  are  hers  from  to-morrow.  We  can 
hunt  up  the  stuff  you  mean  to  give  her,  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  have  it  taken  round  in  the  afternoon.  Then 
she  could  move  in  on  Thursday.  There's  nothing 
against  Thursday  even  in  Italy,  where  they  add 
Tuesday  to  their  unlucky  days."  And  he  quoted  the 
quaint  rhymed  proverb : 

Ne  di  venere  ne  di  marte 
Non  si  sposa,  non  si  parte, 
Non  si  da  principle  all'arte. 


252     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

"Remember  that,  Miss  Flood,  next  time  you  begin 
to  paint  any  one's  portrait!" 

Roma  bestowed  upon  him  one  of  her  swift  scru- 
tinizing glances,  but  Clive  failed  to  intercept  it  and 
continued  to  talk  in  the  same  gay  strain.  But  she 
was  perfectly  convinced  now,  that  he  knew  the  rea- 
son of  Sydney's  suddenly-planned  departure.  What- 
ever it  was,  they  must  have  discussed  it  together,  and 
it  had  met  with  his  approval,  since  he  was  so  eagerly 
lending  his  help  to  effect  it.  Latterly  he  had 
shown  a  disposition  to  seek  out  Sydney's  society,  and 
his  attitude  towards  her  was  one  of  frank  friendli- 
ness. He  was  fond  of  having  these  friendships — 
they  hardly  amounted  to  flirtations — with  young 
and  pretty  women.  Sydney  wasn't  strictly  pretty, 
but  she  had  all  the  charm  of  youth.  She  had  im- 
proved in  looks,  and  people  had  noticed  her  more  of 
late,  had  betrayed  curiosity  about  her  by  inquiring 
who  she  was.  And  they  had  learnt  that  she  was  not 
only  one  of  Morton's  "discoveries";  she  was  also 
Lady  Flood's  daughter,  and  a  sister  of  that  radiant 
young  creature,  Moira  Wanley. 

Presently  Roma  rose  from  her  seat  and  said 
to  Clive : 

"I'm  going  up  to  Moreton,  now.  You  know  he 
doesn't  like  being  left  alone.  .  .  .  You'd  better  come 
too,  Clive." 

Clive  sprang  up,  and  flung  away  the  cigarette  he 
was  smoking. 

"Of  course  I'll  come,"  he  said.  "I  was  forgetting 
about  him.  How  does  he  seem  this  afternoon?" 

Sydney  did  not  hear  Roma's  reply,  for  she  had 
already  reached  the  loggia,  and  in  another  moment 
both  she  and  Clive  had  disappeared  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

ROMA  accompanied  Cliye.and  Sydney  to  Venice  on 
the  following  morning.  ...  It  was  a  day  of 
brilliant  sunshine,  of  bright  blue  sky,  and  buoyant 
glittering  water.  The  Palazzo  was,  of  course, 
closed,  but  the  old  porter  soon  appeared  in  response 
to  the  bell,  and  admitted  them.  They  spent  a  cou- 
ple of  hours  "rummaging  among  the  rubbish,"  as 
Roma  expressed  it.  She  found  some  chairs,  a  cou- 
ple of  tables,  a  sofa  with  faded  cover,  and  an  old- 
fashioned  brazier  with  bell  top  of  carven  brass.  She 
added  an  ancient  pair  of  crimson  damask  curtains, 
and  some  odd  pieces  of  silk. 

Sydney  watched  them,  saying  little.  It  was  always 
Clive  who  spoke,  approving  or  rejecting  any  article 
proffered  by  Mrs.  Cochrane. 

"Too  big — it  would  simply  choke  up  the  place,"  he 
would  say.  And  then:  "There — let  her  have  that, 
Roma.  She's  sure  to  find  it  useful.  What  a  pity 
that  chair  has  only  three  serviceable  legs,  but  I 
could  get  a  man  to  mend  it."  And  once  in  a  tone  of 
light,  eager  enthusiasm,  "Oh,  could  you  really  spare 
that  old  chest,  Roma?  She  could  turn  out  some  of 
the  stuff  that's  already  there,  to  make  room  for  it." 

He  did  not  attempt  to  conceal  his  interest  in  the 
whole  business,  knowing  by  experience  that  a  surface 
enthusiasm  always  deceived  Roma.  She  was  only 
on  the  alert  if  she  suspected  that  he  was  concealing 
anything  from  her.  And  she  mustn't  begin  to  sus- 
pect just  yet.  Very  soon,  of  course,  he  meant  to  tell 
her  everything.  Sydney  was  quite  right  about  that. 

It  was  Clive  who  made   all  the   arrangements. 
253 


254     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

The  things  must  be  taken  round  this  afternoon  and 
deposited  at  the  house.  And  if  Roma  felt  too  tired, 
he  could  help  Miss  Flood  to  fix  the  place  up — it 
wouldn't  take  very  long. 

"Oh,  I  can't  stay  in  Venice  all  day,"  said  Roma, 
with  decision.  "Moreton  would  never  forgive  me — 
he  didn't  like  my  leaving  him  for  a  whole  morning. 
I  shall  go  home  in  time  for  luncheon  and  you  can 
follow  when  you've  finished,  Sydney.  Clive — "  she 
turned  to  him — ^"what  are  you  going  to  do?" 

Clive,  heated  and  eager  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  looked 
up  from  his  rapid  packing  of  curtains,  pieces  of  silk, 
and  an  old  rug,  into  the  chest  he  had  so  enthusiasti- 
cally accepted  on  Sydney's  behalf.  "Oh,  I  must  stay 
here  of  course,  Roma.  Miss  Flood  can't  manage 
alone — she  needs  an  interpreter.  ...  I  want  to  get 
her  place  quite  finished  to-day,  so  that  she  can  go 
there  as  soon  as  she  likes." 

Roma  acquiesced.  She  was  thinking  to  herself: 
"I  wonder  why  he's  so  keen  about  her  going?  He 
doesn't  want  anything  to  delay  it.  And  yet  he's  kind 
to  her — he  likes  her.  But  he  mustn't  desert  poor 
old  Moreton  like  this.  Never  mind — when  Sydney's 
gone,  1  can  tighten  the  reins  a  little." 

She  was  genuinely  puzzled  by  Clive' s  apparent 
eagerness  to  accelerate  Sydney's  departure.  To  her 
there  was  something  inconsistent  in  his  attitude.  His 
very  friendliness  to  Sydney  and  her  quick  responsive- 
ness made  Roma  again  feel  as  if  there  must  be  some 
secret  pact  between  them,  and  that  Sydney's  going 
away  was  all  part  of  it. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  relief  to  them  both  when  Roma 
left  them.  Very  soon  they  hired  a  couple  of  gon- 
dolas to  take  the  things  round  to  the  Riva  degli 
Schiavoni.  They  themselves  followed  in  Roma's 
gondola,  she  having  returned  to  the  Lido  in  the 
motor-boat. 


THE  LIGHT.  ON  THE  LAGOON     255 

Alessio,  the  gondolier,  was  put  in  charge  of  the 
furniture,  and  Clive  insisted  upon  taking  Sydney  to 
luncheon  at  the  hotel  before  letting  her  climb  all 
those  stairs  to  her  new  abode. 

As  they  sat  at  luncheon  Clive  said : 

"I'm  longing  for  you  to  see  it,  and  I  hope  you 
won't  hate  it.  Of  course,  after  the  luxury  of  the 
villa  you're  bound  to  feel  the  change  at  first.  But  I 
know  we  can  make  it  look  top-hole  with  that  old  fur- 
niture of  Roma's." 

"It's  awfully  good  of  her  to  give  me  so  many 
things,"  said  Sydney,  "but  I  can  send  them  back  to 
her  if  I  go  away  to  England." 

"She's  splendid,  really,"  he  agreed.  "I'd  no  idea 
she  would  interest  herself  so  much.  I'd  like  to 
tell  her  .  .  .  about  our  engagement  .  .  .  but  one 
mustn't  worry  her  just  now.  She's  so  upset  about 
poor  old  Moreton.  He  looks  pretty  bad,  Sydney. 
He's  had  a  sharpish  attack  this  time." 

Clive  never  departed  from  the  crystallized  convic- 
tion that  Roma  would  dislike  their  engagement.  He 
didn't  want,  as  he  said,  "to  worry  her."  He  abso- 
lutely set  on  one  side  the  contrary  hypothesis  that 
the  news  might  be  agreeable  to  her.  Sydney  always 
resented  this  a  little,  for  she  remembered  with  what 
affection  Moira  had  been  received  by  Wanley's 
mother  and  sisters,  to  whom,  as  a  cherished  only  son 
and  brother,  he  seemed  to  be  everything  in  the  world. 
This  suggestion,  that  she  would  be  less  than  welcome, 
hurt  her  and  offended  her  pride.  But  she  did  not 
venture  to  say  so.  Always,  she  wished  to  give  in 
to  Clive.  .  .  . 

She  remarked  quietly:  "I  hate  having  a  secret 
from  her,  don't  you?  Perhaps  I  shan't  mind  so 
much  when  I'm  not  living  under  her  roof.  I  shan't 
feel  as  if  I  were  hiding  something  all  the  time." 

"Oh,  you've  felt  that,  too?"  he  said,  wondering:  at 


256     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

her  sensitiveness.  "But  it'll  be  all  right  when  you 
are  living  by  yourself." 

She  leaned  forward  a  little  and  said: 

"Clive,  shall  I  see  you  very  often?  Every  day, 
I  mean?" 

"Every  day  that  I'm  able  to  get  over  to  you,  you 
can  depend  upon  my  coming,  Sydney.  Of  course,  it 
won't  always  be  possible,  especially  as  long  as  More- 
ton's  laid  up.  But  you  mustn't  think  hard  things  of 
me  when  I  don't  come — you'll  understand  I'm  being 
kept  over  there."  He  looked  at  her  with  an  odd 
half-bashful  tenderness.  "I  shall  want  to  come,  you 
know,  far,  far  more  than  you  can  ever  want  to 
see  me!" 

But  her  face  was  unresponsive.  She  could  picture 
already  those  days  when  she  would  gaze  across  the 
lagoon  for  a  Clive  who  did  not  come.  She  could 
imagine  so  vividly,  alas,  the  little  futile  excuses 
which  Roma  would  make  to  keep  him  with  them. 
Moreton  wanted  him;  he  mustn't  leave  Moreton 
to-day;  he  mustn't  spend  so  much  time  away  from 
them.  .  .  .  There  were  letters  to  be  written,  ac- 
counts to  be  gone  through.  She  had  an  impulse  to 
tell  him  of  those  thoughts,  to  urge  him  to  break  free. 
But  she  felt  that  the  time  had  not  come.  She  could 
not  yet  suggest  to  him  that  he  ought  to  have  the 
moral  force  to  break  those  chains  for  the  sake  of 
the  woman  he  professed  to  love.  He  would  be 
astonished,  indignant  perhaps;  he  would  think  that 
she  was  jealous  of  those  ancient  ties. 

But  her  heart  sank  a  little  at  the  prospect  of 
spending  even  one  day  without  seeing  him. 

After  luncheon  Clive  took  her  round  to  see  her 
new  abode,  which  was  situated  some  little  distance 
away,  near  the  Riva  degli  Schiavoni. 

It  could  be  reached  on  foot  from  the  hotel  where 
they  had  lunched,  he  informed  her,  for  one  of  the 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     257 

doors  was  in  a  little  square.  The  stairs  were  many 
and  steep,  as  is  so  often  the  case  in  old  Italian  houses, 
but  the  view  from  her  little  terrace  repaid  her  for 
the  exertion.  The  studio,  which  was  in  front,  pos- 
sessed two  large  windows  which  opened  casement- 
wise,  and  let  in  full  and  reviving  draughts  of  air 
from  sea  and  lagoon.  She  could  see  the  lagoon  in 
all  its  beauty,  sparkling  in  the  sunshine,  with  the 
islands  nestling  upon  its  broad  bosom.  To  the 
right,  the  great  Dome  of  Santa  Maria  della  Salute 
was  delicately  painted  in  silvery  tones  against  the 
bright  pure  blue  of  the  sky.  The  rosy  pile  of  San 
Giorgio  stood  up  in  all  its  wonderful  beauty  of  grace 
and  color,  with  beyond  it  the  long  line  of  the 
Giudecca,  the  masts  and  rigging  of  the  ships  rising 
above  the  houses  and  forming  a  miniature  forest. 
The  brown  and  gold  and  white  and  deep  red  of  the 
sails  showed  clearly  on  the  glittering  water  of  the 
lagoon.  Far  off  they  could  see  a  steamer  like  a  tiny 
smudge  of  smoke  on  the  horizon.  Around  them  the 
numerous  towers  and  domes  were  uplifted  against 
the  sky.  They  formed  the  dominant  note  of  Venice, 
an  incomparable  heritage  from  those  days  when 
man  gave  of  his  best  for  the  service  and  worship 
of  God. 

Clive  and  Sydney  stood  together  on  the  little  bal- 
cony in  silence.  The  soft  sea  air  touched  their  faces 
and  ruffled  their  hair. 

They  worked  hard  all  the  afternoon.  Clive  was 
an  adept  at  arranging  houses,  he  had  so  often  helped 
Roma  to  "settle  in"  as  he  explained.  He  shifted  the 
furniture  from  place  to  place  until  the  arrangement 
satisfied  his  fastidious  taste.  The  curtains  were 
hung,  the  ancient  rugs  were  spread  out  on  the  hard 
composition  floor,  an  old  piece  of  damask  silk,  beau- 
tiful in  its  faded  splendor,  completely  covered  the 
sofa.  The  room  was  transformed.  Clive,  thor- 


258     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

oughly  tired  out  with  his  exertions,  flung  himself  on 
the  sofa  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Well,  do  you  like  it,  Sydney?  Does  it  please 
you  ?" 

"Very,  very  much.  It's  almost  too  grand  for  quite 
a  poor  person !" 

"But  you  won't  always  be  a  poor  person,"  he  told 
her  smiling.  "At  first,  though,  you'll  have  to  be 
rather  frugal,  I'm  afraid.  But  if  you  find  it  too 
strenuous  you'll  go  home,  won't  you?  And  then  1 
shall  follow — as  soon  as  poor  old  Moreton's  better, 
of  course — rand  there  will  be  nothing  for  Lady  Flood 
to  do  but  to  give  us  the  conventional  blessing.  Do 
you  think  she'll  approve  of  me  ?" 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  she  will !"  Sydney  knew  that  her 
mother  had  all  an  elderly  woman's  weakness  for 
good-looking  young  men.  Clive  was  certain  to  find 
favor  with  her.  She  suddenly  thought  of  the  pride 
she  would  feel  in  thus  introducing  him  to  her  own 
people.  If  they  were  slightly  prejudiced  against  him 
at  first  on  account  of  his  connection  with  the  Coch- 
ranes,  that  would  surely  soon  pass  off.  Clive  was 
very  charming,  and  when  he  set  himself  out  de- 
liberately to  please,  he  could  be  attractive  and  even 
fascinating. 

"You  shan't  be  alone  long,  Sydney  darling,"  he 
said.  "We  must  be  married  quite  soon.  I  don't 
really  see  any  use  in  putting  it  off  till  next  year.  It 
might  be  in  the  late  autumn — don't  you  think  so?" 

"Yes,  Clive,"  Sydney  assented. 

She  felt  that  she  could  leave  the  future  confidently 
in  his  hands.  In  the  late  autumn?  And  already 
they  were  in  September.  There  would  be  no  long 
and  cruel  waiting.  She  need  have  no  fear  of  this 
present  solitude,  knowing  it  was  only  to  be  a  tempo- 
rary one. 

But  his  next  words  chilled  her. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     259 

"We  mustn't  forget,  though,  that  it  all  depends 
upon  Moreton's  recovery,"  he  said;  "I  couldn't  leave 
him  as  long  as  he  is  ill — it  wouldn't  be  possible !" 

Sydney  made  no  answer.  Clive,  discerning  in  her 
something  of  opposition,  held  out  his  hand  and  drew 
her  to  him. 

"You  do  see  that  too,  don't  you,  Sydney?" 

She  checked  once  more  that  mad  impulse  to  speak 
and  tell  him  all  her  rebellious  thoughts  upon  the  sub- 
ject of  Moreton.  There  was  a  little  pause,  and  then 
she  answered: 

"Perhaps  he  won't  be  ill  very  long.  He  got  over 
that  first  attack  so  quickly." 

"Yes,  but  we  must  remember  he  isn't  so  very 
young  now.  He  hasn't  got  the  same  recuperative 
power  he  used  to  have.  The  doctor  thinks  rather 
seriously  of  him — he's  told  Roma  so." 

"Oh,  has  he?" 

"You  must  have  noticed  that  she's  very  anxious 
about  him,"  said  Clive. 

"Yes,  I  thought  she  was  worried." 

"It's  so  difficult  for  her  to  keep  anything  from 
Moreton." 

Clive  rose  from  the  sofa  and  went  out  of  the 
room.  When  he  returned,  he  carried  a  parcel  in  his 
hand.  "I'd  forgotten  these,"  he  said;  "we  must 
hang  them  up."  He  took  off  the  paper,  and  Sydney 
saw  within  two  framed  photographs.  One  was  of 
Tintoretto's  "Coronation"  with  St.  Placid  in  the 
foreground.  The  other  was  Boccaccino's  "Madonna 
and  Saints."  Standing  near  the  Madonna  was  a 
beautiful  girlish  figure  with  a  sweet  face  and  eyes  set 
rather  wide  apart. 

"She's  awfully  like  you,"  said  Clive.  "Some- 
times you've  got  just  that  look  in  your  eyes.  You 
see,  she's  carrying  her  palm  of  martyrdom."  He 
glanced  from  Sydney  to  the  pictured  face,  as  if  com- 


26o     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

paring  them.  "It's  when  you're  talking  of  spiritual 
things  you  look  so  like  her,"  he  added,  with  tender- 
ness in  his  voice. 

"Oh,  Clive — thank  you  ever  so  much.  I  shall 
love  having  them  both !" 

It  was  the  first  present  he  had  ever  given  her,  and 
the  gift  touched  her.  Her  simple  pleasure  de- 
lighted him.  He  found  hammer  and  nails  and  hung 
them  up. 

When  he  had  finished  she  said  hesitatingly : 

"Clive,  you  said  you  wanted  me  to  wait,  but  now 
I'm  here  alone,  don't  you  think  I  might  begin  my 
instruction?  To  be  a  Catholic,  I  mean?" 

There  was  a  little  pause.  She  watched  his  face 
and  saw  a  cloud  come  over  it,  diminishing  its 
bright  gayety. 

"No,  I  think  I'd  rather  you  didn't  do  that,"  he 
said,  carefully;  "I  feel  you  wouldn't  wait,  then,  to  be 
received  until  after  we  were  married.  You'd  want 
to  have  it  over  first,  and  be  married  in  a  Catholic 
church.  And  I'm  afraid  that  Moreton  being  what 
he  is — a  mass  of  ridiculous  old-fashioned  prejudices 
on  the  subject — it  would  complicate  matters  very 
much  indeed.  It  might  even  lead  to  a  break  between 
myself  and  Moreton." 

Sydney  looked  a  little  indignant.  "But  I  don't 
owe  anything  to  Moreton!"  she  said.  "I  don't  care 
in  the  least  what  he  thinks !" 

"But  you  must  see  that  I  can't  possibly  take  up 
that  independent  attitude,"  said  Clive,  patiently.  "I 
owe  him  too  much." 

There  was  a  pause.  Sydney  regretted  her  angry 
words.  She  saw  that  they  had  affected  Clive  and 
brought  his  two  loyalties  into  sharp  collision. 

"My  dear,  you'll  give  up  this  idea  for  the  present, 
won't  you?"  he  said,  coming  close  to  her  and  taking 
her  hand  in  his.  "If  it  weren't  something  I  feel  to 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     261 

be  most  awfully  important,  I  wouldn't  ask  even  this 
temporary  sacrifice  from  you." 

The  whole  trend  of  her  nature  was,  he  knew  well, 
towards  the  immense  unity  of  Catholicism;  it  had 
captured  her  when  she  first  came  in  contact  with  it 
in  Venice,  and  it  still  held  her  fast.  There  would  come 
a  moment,  such  as  came  to  all  intending  converts, 
when  the  treasures  which  the  world  could  offer  be- 
came as  nought  in  comparison  to  those  immortal  spir- 
itual gifts  that  the  Catholic  Church  held  securely  in 
her  own  hands.  And  when  that  moment  came,  he 
knew  it  would  not  find  her  unprepared.  The  knowl- 
edge made  him  secretly  uncomfortable.  Once  he  had 
been  on  the  verge  of  commencing  his  own  instruction 
at  the  hands  of  a  very  well-known  Jesuit  priest,  and 
had  been  compelled  to  renounce  the  project  at  More- 
ton's  entreaties.  He  had  not  known  until  then,  how 
strong  and  violent  his  cousin's  prejudices  were. 
Never  since  the  days  of  his  boyhood  had  he  seen 
Moreton  so  angry  and  implacable. 

Sydney  did  not  speak.  At  that  moment  two 
powerful  influences  were  striving  within  her  for  the 
possession  of  her  will.  Clive  seemed  to  discern  this 
and  added:  "I'm  asking  this  of  you  as  a  proof  of 
your  love  for  me,  Sydney.  You  know  so  well  how 
I'm  placed  with,  regard  to  my  cousins.  I  think  it 
will  be  different  when  I'm  married,  and  have  a  life 
of  my  own  apart  from  them.  But  now  I  mustn't  risk 
displeasing  Moreton,  who  has  been  like  a  father  to 
me.  A  kind,  good  father,  almost  too  indulgent  in 
many  ways.  I  remember  his  telling  me  that  once 
when  I  was  a  little  chap  he  knew  I  deserved  a  flog- 
ging but  he  couldn't  bring  himself  to  give  it  to  me." 

'  Yes — yes,  I  see  it's  necessary  for  you  to  think 
of  him  and  what  he  would  wish.  I  do  see  you  owe  a 
great  deal  to  him,  Clive !  I  suppose  I  must  give  in, 
too,  since  you  wish  it." 


262     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

Clive  looked  immensely  relieved.  But  he  knew 
that  Sydney  had  yielded  only  after  a  stormy  little 
struggle,  during  which  she  had  uttered  no  word.  He 
had  related  that  little  episode  of  the  past  purposely, 
so  as  to  throw  a  new  and  tender  light  upon  his  rela- 
tions with  Moreton  Cochrane.  She  must  be  made  to 
see  that  his  childhood  had  been  immensely  blessed 
by  that  never-failing  solicitude  and  care  and  love.  It 
was  something,  perhaps,  that  he  could  never  ade- 
quately repay. 

But  Sydney  saw  only  the  consequences,  and  they 
seemed  to  surround  Clive  with  an  arbitrary  servitude 
that  was  almost  a  degrading  thing.  It  was  some- 
thing from  which  she  passionately  wished  to  free 
him.  Had  he  not  long  ago  paid  his  debt  to  Moreton, 
full  measure,  pressed  down  and  running  over?  Was 
he  always  to  show  an  obedience,  a  deference,  that 
no  father  would  have  dreamed  of  exacting  from  a 
grown-up  son? 

Moreton's  rule  ground  fine,  and  Roma  was  always 
at  hand  to  see  that  it  was  obeyed.  Of  their  luxurious 
life  Clive  was  given  freely,  but  in  Sydney's  opinion 
he  paid  heavily  for  all  those  privileges.  And  some 
day  perhaps  he  would  see  this  clearly  for  himself, 
and  cut  those  chains,  swiftly,  irrevocably. 

Would  he  ever  have  the  strength  to  do  it?  She 
looked  at  him,  and  her  heart  sank.  Their  empire 
over  him  was  so  supreme,  governing  even  all  the 
petty  happenings  of  his  day.  He  could  hardly  ab- 
sent himself  for  a  whole  afternoon  without  being 
met  by  tender  reproaches  on  his  return.  Even  his 
love  for  her  seemed  too  weak  a  thing  to  admit  of  his 
forgetting  Moreton's  wishes  for  a  moment.  It 
wasn't  the  kind  of  love  that  sweeps  aside  all  obsta- 
cles to  attain  its  purpose.  Did  it  mean  that  there 
was  something  wanting  in  that  love  ? 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

IT  was  evening  when  they  crossed  to  the  Lido  in  a 
small  and  crowded  steamer.  They  walked  up  to 
the  villa  under  the  slanting  shadows  of  the  plane- 
trees.  A  cooler  wind  blew  in  from  the  Adriatic, 
reviving  the  air  after  the  great  heat  of  the  day.  Be- 
tween the  trees  they  could  catch  fugitive  glimpses  of 
the  long  bright  blue  line  of  the  sea,  dancing  a  little 
as  if  in  response  to  that  wayward,  caressing  breeze. 

Roma  was  not  in  the  garden,  but  it  was  long  after 
the  hour  when  she  generally  had  tea,  and  probably 
she  had  gone  upstairs  to  be  with  Moreton.  As  they 
entered  the  hall,  they  heard  her  voice,  calling  softly 
from  the  landing  above. 

"Clive!    Clive!" 

"Yes,"  said  Clive.  He  left  Sydney  standing  there, 
and  bounded  lightly  up  the  stairs,  two  at  a  time. 
Roma's  urgent  voice  gave  him  a  quick  sense  of  un- 
easiness, of  anxiety.  He  felt  that  she  must  have 
been  waiting  for  them — had  come  to  the  landing  di- 
rectly she  heard  them  enter  the  house. 

Sydney  had  mounted  the  first  step  to  go  up  to  her 
room,  when  she  saw  Roma  descending  the  stairs 
and  coming  towards  her. 

"Sydney,"  she  said. 

"Yes?"  said  Sydney.  Her  heart  beat  a  little 
faster.  It  seemed  as  if  the  very  atmosphere  of  the 
house  were  impregnated  with  something  sinister,  as 
of  an  approaching  disaster  that  would  drag  them  all 
into  its  net.  Moreton  and  Roma,  herself  and 
Clive.  .  .  . 

"I've  been  wanting  Clive,"  said  Roma;  "More- 
263 


264     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

ton's  been  so  much  worse.  I  hate  bearing  anxiety 
alone." 

There  was  a  strained,  almost  harsh  tone  in  her 
voice.  She  looked  irritably  at  Sydney. 

"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry  he  isn't  so  well,  Roma.  And  I'm 
afraid  we  were  rather  late.  There  was  so  much  to 
be  done." 

"Well,  I'm  very  glad  you've  got  this  place  ready 
to  go  to,"  said  Roma,  "although  I've  been  hurt  at  the 
very  sudden  way  you  planned  to  leave  us.  If  this  goes 
on,  I  shall  want  your  rooms  here,  for  I  can't  do 
everything  for  Moreton  even  with  dive's  help.  We 
must  send  for  a  nurse." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  indeed,  to  go  just  when  you're 
so  anxious." 

There  was  genuine  contrition  in  Sydney's  tone. 
She  could  see  that  Roma  was  thoroughly  worried 
and  upset. 

"He's  been  making  his  will,"  continued  Roma 
fretfully,  "so  I'm  sure  he  must  be  feeling  pretty  bad. 
Such  an  absurd  will,  too.  I  suppose  he's  thinking  of 
that  talk  he  had  with  Clive  two  years  ago — I  know 
it  made  a  great  impression  on  him." 

"AtalkwithClfve?" 

"Yes — when  Clive  was  seized  with  that  idea  of 
becoming  a  Roman  Catholic.  I'm  sure  it  was  only 
a  passing  phase,  but  Moreton  is  persuaded  that 
dive's  still  thinking  of  it.  So  he's  made  a  will  in 
which  no  Roman  Catholic,  or  one  who  becomes  a 
Roman  Catholic,  or  who  marries  a  Roman  Catholic, 
is  to  have  any  share  in  his  money." 

As  she  said  these  words  she  looked  attentively  at 
Sydney.  The  girl  flushed  a  little  under  that  scrutiny. 
She  had  learnt  to  fear  Roma's  discernment.  She 
might  have  been  a  hidden  listener  of  their  conversa- 
tion that  very  afternoon. 

"Is  he  so  very  prejudiced?"  said  Sydney  at  last. 
Her  throat  was  dry;  she  had  a  little  difficulty  in 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     265 

articulating.  It  seemed  to  her  that  Roma's  words 
were  a  sword  directed  at  her  own  heart.  She  feared 
her  then.  Flesh  and  spirit  alike  shrank  from  this 
woman  she  had  once  almost  worshiped  with  childish 
adoration.  .  .  . 

"I  can't  think  what  made  him  remember  it  to-day," 
proceeded  Roma,  leading  the  way  into  the  loggia 
and  throwing  herself  upon  a  long  chair.  "Sit  down 
there,  Sydney.  1  like  to  have  you  there.  You're 
such  a  quiet,  reposeful  little  thing.  Tell  me — does 
your  new  house  look  nice?  Did  Clive  help  you?" 

"Yes,  I  let  him  do  everything.  He's  made  it  look 
perfectly  lovely." 

"I'm  so  glad.  And  you  won't  find  it  too  lonely 
without  all  of  us — and  Clive?  You've  seen  such  a 
lot  of  him  lately.  .  .  ." 

"I  am  sure  to  feel  lonely — to  miss  you  all — at 
first.  But  I  shall  have  my  work.  And  I  hope  you'll 
let  me  come  over  and  see  you  sometimes,  Roma." 

"Yes — of  course  you  must  come,  directly  Moreton 
gets  a  little  better.  I  expect  he'll  take  up  all  our 
time  for  the  next  few  days,  even  if  I  do  manage  to 
get  a  nurse.  But  I'll  send  over  a  note  directly  he 
gets  better.  Clive  must  stay  here  for  the  present, 
and  help  me.  He's  been  out  so  much  the  last  day 
or  two,  and  Moreton's  wanted  him." 

Sydney  turned  her  face  abruptly  away,  and  gazed 
into  the  garden,  so  that  Roma  could  only  see  the 
pale  line  of  her  profile,  delicate  as  a  cameo  in  its 
drawing.  She  felt  a  dull  yet  fierce  indignation  at 
this  enslavement  of  Clive.  They  controlled  his 
movements,  his  liberty.  Clive  must  stay  here  for  the 
present  and  help  me.  .  .  .  He  would  have  no  choice 
but  to  remain  tied  to  Moreton's  side  as  long  as  this 
illness  lasted.  He  would  never  be  allowed  to  come 
over  to  Venice  to  see  her.  And  he  would  bow  to 
their  authority,  and  place  it  before  any  obligations 
to  the  woman  he  loved  and  had  promised  to  marry. 


266     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

She  was  to  be  thrust  on  one  side.  She  had  an  insen- 
sate impulse  then  to  reveal  the  indignant  thoughts 
that  were  raging  in  her  heart  and  cry  out:  "You 
shall  not  keep  him  from  me!  ...  We  love  each 
other." 

But  she  looked  suddenly  at  Roma,  and  the  mad 
impulse  died.  Moreton  might  be  exigent,  especially 
when  ill,  but  it  was  Roma  who  saw  that  Clive  did 
not  slip  away  from  his  old  allegiance,  it  was  Roma 
who  so  assiduously  fanned  the  flame  of  gratitude  and 
recognition  of  past  benefits. 

It  was  a  relief  when  Roma  rose  and  returned  up- 
stairs. Sydney  took  the  opportunity  of  going  up 
to  her  own  room.  She  wanted  time  and  leisure  to 
think  over  that  curious  piece  of  information,  which 
Roma  had  just  flung  at  her,  concerning  Moreton's 
will.  If  the  arrow  had  been  shot  in  the  dark,  it 
had  nevertheless  gone  home  to  the  heart  of  the  sit- 
uation. It  had  struck  at  dive's  life  as  well  as  her 
own. 

It  involved  the  future  as  well  as  the  present.  If 
she  became  a  Catholic  and  Clive  married  her,  he 
would  forfeit  all  that  he  might  otherwise  have  in- 
herited from  Moreton.  She  wondered  what  Clive 
would  do  if  confronted  with  such  a  situation  as 
that,  what  course  he  would  pursue.  For  Sydney 
was  aware  'at  that  moment  that  her  own  resolve 
to  become  a  Catholic  had  passed  beyond  the  region 
of  mere  velleities;  it  was  something  to  which  she  had 
in  a  sense  pledged  herself.  To  look  back  now  would 
be  to  label  herself  forever  a  defaulter,  a  backslider, 
almost  an  apostate. 

And  even  apart  from  the  religious  question,  there 
were  immense  and  almost  insuperable  difficulties  in 
her  path.  Once  she  had  told  herself  that  the  only 
chance  of  happiness  for  them  would  be  to  induce 
Clive  to  live  in  England  after  their  marriage,  quite 
away  from  the  Cochranes  and  their  worldly  bril- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     267 

liant  milieu.  He  had  fetched  and  carried  for  them 
too  long.  But  would  it  be  a  simple  thing  to  wean 
him  from  his  almost  life-long  allegiance  to  More- 
ton?  Moreton  had  been  as  a  father  to  him,  tender, 
indulgent  as  perhaps  are  few  fathers;  he  had 
guarded  and  cared  for  him  as  his  own  son.  Was 
it  so  strange  that  he  should  still  exact  this  filial  de- 
votion from  Clive?  It  would  not  be  easy  to  take 
Clive  away.  Sydney's  heart  sank.  Would  he  ever 
seem  to  be  quite  hers — absolutely  hers?  She  felt 
as  if  she  would  never  receive  from  him  a  truly  single- 
hearted,  undivided  devotion.  She  would  always 
hear  Roma's  voice  calling  across  her  life:  "Clive! 
Clive !  Moreton  wants  you !"  And  she  would  al- 
ways have  the  agony  of  seeing  Clive  run  to  obey 
her,  answering  her  call  with  eager  alacrity. 

Clive  did  not  dine  with  them  that  night. 

"He'll  have  a  cozy  little  dinner  upstairs  with 
Moreton,"  said  Roma,  as  she  joined  Sydney  in  the 
salotto  at  eight  o'clock.  "It's  better  for  Moreton 
to  have  company  when  he  is  eating.  And  it's 
cheered  him  up  wonderfully  to  have  Clive  there  this 
evening." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  dining-room.  In  the 
dim,  rose-shaded  light  Sydney  looked  paler  than 
usual.  This  was  her  last  night  at  the  Lido,  and 
she  was  wondering  what  that  fresh  step  into  the 
unknown  was  destined  to  bring  her.  She  tried  to 
look  hopefully  into  the  future,  but  between  herself 
and  that  day  in  late  autumn  when  she  was  to  be- 
come Clive's  wife,  a  great  black  gulf  seemed  to 
stretch  mournfully.  She  was  afraid.  For  the  first 
time  her  courage  seemed  to  fail. 

She  was  aware  that  Roma  was  speaking  to  her, 
and  with  an  effort  she  roused  herself  to  listen. 

"What  time  did  you  think  of  leaving  to-morrow, 
Sydney?  Do  you  think  you  could  be  ready  by  ten 
o'clock,  and  then  we  could  go  together  in  the  motor- 


268     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

boat,  and  take  your  luggage?  It  would  make  one 
journey,  and  I  want  to  go  into  Venice  as  early  as 
possible  to  see  about  a  nurse." 

"Oh,  I  shall  be  ready  by  ten,  Roma,"  said  Syd- 
ney; "I  could  be  ready  sooner  if  you  wished." 

"Th'en  we'll  say  ten,"  said  Roma.  "Clive  can 
stay  with  Moreton  while  I'm  gone." 

After  dinner  Roma  went  upstairs  and  left  her. 
Sydney  went  into  the  salotto  and  took  up  a  book. 
But  she  turned  over  page  after  page  without  assimi- 
lating anything  of  its  contents.  She  was  thinking 
of  Roma  and  Clive  upstairs,  intimately  occupied 
with  Moreton,  perhaps  planning  to  take  it  in  turns 
to  watch  beside  him  the  whole  night.  There  was 
no  place  for  her  in  that  little  group,  and  yet  in  a 
sense  she  felt  that  she  had  a  right  to  be  there.  If 
Clive  would  only  speak  and  make  known  that  right 
of  hers  to  be  treated  as  one  of  the  family !  .  .  . 

She  stayed  downstairs  until  ten  o'clock,  hoping 
always  that  Clive  would  come  down  to  say  good- 
night to  her.  But  he  did  not  come,  and  pride  for- 
bade her  to  wait  up  after  her  usual  hour  for  re- 
tiring. She  crept  up  to  bed,  and  as  she  passed  More- 
ton's  door  she  could  hear  a  low  sound  of  voices, 
of  subdued  laughter.  She  tried  to  picture  Roma 
and  Clive  sitting  there,  one  on  each  side  of  More- 
ton's  bed,  with  the  sick  man  turning  his  restless, 
haggard  face  from  one  to  the  other.  .  .  .  The  man 
and  woman  upon  whom  all  the  love  of  his  life  had 
been  lavishly  poured  out.  .  .  .  And  he  received 
from  them  both  a  loving  service  and  attention  that 
never  failed  him  either  in  sickness  or  in  health. 

Sydney  thought  of  Clive  as  a  victim  sitting  there, 
bound  to  them  for  all  time. 

She  rose  early  on  the  following  morning.  No  one 
was  astir.  She  finished  her  packing,  drank  her 
morning  coffee,  which  was  always  brought  up  to  the 


studio,  and  at  a  little  before  ten  o'clock  went  down- 
stairs. There  was  no  one  in  the  loggia.  Clive 
generally  had  his  coffee  there  when  he  returned 
from  his  morning  dip  in  the  sea,  but  to-day  there 
was  no  sign  of  him.  For  the  first  time  she  felt 
a  little  fear  that  he  would  not  be  able  to  come 
downstairs  to  say  good-by  to  her.  Perhaps  they  had 
not  told  him  that  she  was  leaving  so  early. 

She  waited,  restlessly.  Once  she  went  out  into 
the  garden  and  looked  up  at  Moreton's  window.  It 
was  still  darkened,  with  the  wooden  outside  shut- 
ters closed  across  it.  Perhaps  he  was  still  asleep. 
She  wondered  if  Clive  were  with  him,  watching  over 
him,.  She  was  still  standing  there,  when  she  saw 
Roma  come  out  into  the  loggia. 

"Sydney,  are  you  ready?" 

"Yes,  quite  ready." 

"They've  brought  down  your  boxes?" 

"Yes." 

"We  had  better  start.  I  don't  want  to  lose  any 
time.  I'm  a  little  late  as  it  is." 

A  lump  rose  to  Sydney's  throat.  She  could 
hardly  speak.  It  was  with  difficulty  that  she  said: 

"How  is  Moreton?  I  hope  he  had  a  good 
night." 

"No — he  was  very  restless,  Clive  told  me.  Clive 
sat  up  with  him." 

"All  night?" 

"Yes,  he  wouldn't  let  me  relieve  him.  And  More- 
ton  hates  me  to  get  too  tired." 

They  walked  down  to  the  little  landing-stage 
where  the  motor-boat  was  waiting  for  them.  Syd- 
ney saw  that  her  boxes  were  already  piled  upon  it. 

"Get  in,"  said  Roma.  She  gave  some  instruc- 
tions to  the  man,  in  her  rapid,  perfect  Italian.  They 
started  almost  immediately. 

The  waters  of  the  lagoon  were  rough  and  agi- 
tated that  morning,  for  the  wind  had  appreciably 


270     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

increased  in  velocity  since  the  previous  night.  The 
journey  was  not  at  all  a  pleasant  one  for  Sydney. 
She  disliked  being  tossed  about,  and  the  glare  from 
the  water  hurt  her  eyes.  She  had  so  counted  upon 
seeing  Clive  before  she  started.  For  days  perhaps 
he  would  not  be  able  to  escape  to  come  and  see  her. 
This  going  away  without  a  word  from  him  was 
tragic.  Roma  had  contrived  it,  perhaps.  .  .  .  But 
she  thrust  the  thought  from  her.  She  could  not 
begin  to  distrust  Roma.  .  .  . 

Once  alone,  she  would  be  able  to  see  things  more 
clearly  and  in  their  right  proportions.  She  would 
recover  in  those  days  of  solitude  that  unity  of  pur- 
pose which  to  the  artist  as  well  as  to  the  Saint  is 
the  one  way  of  peace.  She  felt  as  if  all  these  last 
days  she  had  permitted  herself  to  be  swayed  and 
influenced  by  each  strange  current  that  had  swept 
over  her  life,  buffeting  and  bewildering  her.  She 
longed  for  the  quality  which  she  was  conscious  that 
she  lacked — stability.  It  was  lacking  in  her  work. 
It  was  cruelly  lacking  in  her  life.  It  was  some- 
thing that  she  even  found  lacking  in  others  when 
they  came  in  contact  with  herself,  as  if  they 
would  not  offer  her  something  which  she  denied  to 
them.  .  .  . 

She  glanced  at  Roma,  who  was  looking  beautiful 
this  morning.  She  was  wrapped  in  a  Tight  dust- 
colored  cloak,  and  her  hat  was  tied  on  with  a  white 
gauzy  veil.  She  seemed  perfectly  indifferent  to  the 
swaying  of  the  boat  as  it  tossed  its  impetuous  way 
across  the  lagoon. 

But  Sydney  did  not  wish  the  journey  to  come  to 
an  end,  uncomfortable  though  it  was.  Roma  was 
the  last  link  with  that  life  she  was  about  to  leave. 
She  wished  now  that  it  could  have  been  prolonged 
for  a  few  more  days.  It  was  terrible — this  sud- 
den departure  without  a  single  word  of  farewell 
from  Clive. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

SYDNEY  slept  badly  that  night  in  her  new  abode, 
and  awoke  with  that  strange  feeling  of  unreality 
so  common  to  those  who  awake  on  the  first  day 
amid  novel  surroundings.  She  looked  round  the 
room  obscurely  delineated  in  the  gloom.  It  was 
unfamiliar  to  her,  and  she  could  not  at  first  remem- 
ber where  she  was.  Memory  stood  like  a  black  fig- 
ure at  the  door  of  her  brain,  waiting  to  thrust  its 
unwelcome  knowledge  upon  her.  Ah,  she  knew 
where  she  was  now!  She  had  left  the  Lido — she 
was  in  these  rooms  Clive  had  found  for  her.  She 
was  alone.  If  she  wanted  her  morning  coffee  she 
must  rise  and  prepare  it,  or  else  go  out  and  have 
it  in  some  restaurant.  She  was  no  longer  under 
the  same  roof  with  Clive.  The  tears  filled  her  eyes, 
she  began  to  sob  weakly. 

Presently  she  got  out  of  bed,  and  going  to  the 
window  unfastened  the  wooden  shutters.  The  scene 
that  met  .her  eyes  was  very  fair.  The  cool  mists 
of  an  early  September  morning  hung  about  the  la- 
goon, hiding  in  the  distance  the  line  where  it  be- 
came one  with  the  sky.  Over  there  was  the  Lido, 
with  its  beautiful  masses  of  green  trees,  its  banal 
ugly  villas  and  hotels.  The  sight  of  it  made  her 
feel  acutely  homesick. 

Below  her  feet  the  lagoon  lay  pearl-colored.  San 
Giorgio,  with  its  slender,  delicious  campanile,  had 
lost  something  of  its  insistent  rosiness  in  this  wan 
morning  light.  But  the  beautful  dome  of  Santa 
Maria  della  Salute  seemed  to  be  fashioned  of  some 
silver  ethereal  substance,  and  the  great  golden  ball 

271 


272     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

on  the  Dogana  stood  up  prominently  upon  its  sup- 
porting white  columns  with  the  shifting  figure  of 
Fortune  holding  out  its  cloak  to  catch  the  breeze. 
A  yellow  sail  thrust  its  shape  through  the  mist  on 
the  lagoon.  A  sea-gull  flew  past  with  sudden  flash 
of  silver.  It  seemed  to  her  that  she  was  looking 
upon  Venice  from  a  new  angle,  seeing  it  with  new 
eyes. 

She  felt,  too,  that  it  had  offered  her  a  gift,  and 
though  she  had  not  refused  it,  she  had  put  it  aside 
at  human  bidding.  Her  conscience  was  uneasy. 
She  had  a  dim  foreboding  that  she  would  have  to 
choose  some  day  between  the  two  gifts  that  had 
been  offered  to  her  in  Venice.  But  she  put  the 
thought  aside.  That  new  will  of  Moreton's!  .  .  . 
She  wondered  if  Clive  knew  of  it,  and  whether  the 
thought  had  occurred  to  him  also  that  he  and  Syd- 
ney might  be  called  upon  to  make  sacrifices.  She 
told  herself  a  little  bitterly,  that  he  would  yield 
ultimately  to  Moreton's  wishes — that  ancient  alle- 
giance was  really  the  force  that  controlled  and  gov- 
erned his  life. 

Those  last  few  days  spent  at  the  villa  on  the  Lido 
had  taught  her,  beyond  all  possibility  of  doubt, 
the  significance  of  Moreton  and  Roma  Cochrane  in 
dive's  life. 

He  had  loved  other  women,  so  Roma  had  told 
her  long  ago  in  London,  he  had  indeed  often  been 
in  love.  Roma  had  told  her  this  as  a  kind  of  warn- 
ing. Sydney  asked  herself  now  whether  he  had  re- 
nounced those  other  loves  at  Roma's  bidding,  at 
Roma's  suggestion.  .  .  .  Did  she  point  out  the 
flaws  in  the  marble,  the  clumsy  clay  feet?  What 
were  Clive's  real  feelings  towards  Roma? 

He  could  and  did  criticize  her  lightly,  even  bit- 
terly, it  depended  upon  the  mood  that  was  on  him 
— he  had  called  her  selfish  and  luxurious,  yet  had 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     273 

immediately  afterwards  defended  her  because  "she 
was  Roma  and  a  law  unto  herself."  But  he  could 
not,  and  this  knowledge  stabbed  Sydney  with  a  pain 
that  was  almost  physical,  he  could  not  put  her  quite 
on  one  side  even  for  the  woman  he  had  promised 
to  marry.  She  had  power  over  him,  a  vicarious 
power  acquired  through  her  position  as  Moreton's 
wife,  and  she  used  it  a  little  cruelly.  That  was  one 
of  Sydney's  most  recent  discoveries  concerning  this 
strange,  enigmatic,  beautiful,  complex  woman  who 
ruled  that  household  over  there  across  the  lagoon, 
with  such  light  yet  relentless  touch.  And  in  her 
heart  Sydney  believed  that  Roma  was  really  indif- 
ferent to  them  all.  She  could  care  very  gracefully 
for  a  new  friend,  for  a  little  time,  just  as  she  had 
cared  for  Sydney.  In  the  first  days  of  their  friend- 
ship she  had  seemed  to  be  compelling  affection  from 
the  girl,  who  was  only  too  eager  and  ready  to  give 
it.  But  her  love  was  a  surface  thing  without  roots. 
Roma  liked  novelty,  fresh  faces,  fresh  ideas,  new 
points  of  view.  When  any  one  ceased  to  provide  her 
with  such  novelties,  she  passed  on  to  others  that  could 
supply  her  with  something  new  and  individual.  But 
there  was  always  in  her  a  fundamental  indifference 
towards  people,  that  shielded  her  from  any  suffer- 
ing they  might  cause  her.  Of  course,  she  was  fond 
of  Moreton;  most  people  indeed  considered  her  a 
devoted  wife,  eternally  patient  with  his  tantrums,  his 
ill-health,  his  irritable  exigence.  She  invariably 
showed  him  a  charming,  wifely  solicitude  and  in- 
dulgence. When  he  was  ill,  there  was  something 
almost  ostentatious  in  her  absorption  in  him  and 
his  needs.  And  she  never  let  Clive  forget  his  duty 
to  Moreton  for  a  single  second.  If  she  had  a  bur- 
den to  carry,  she  compelled  Clive  to  share  it.  And 
Clive  offered  no  resistance;  he  was  graceful  and 
charming  in  his  submission.  To  look  at  him,  one 


274     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

would  have  thought  that  his  sole  desire  in  life  was 
to  devote  himself  to  Moreton  and  Roma.  And  all 
the  time  he  was  secretly  engaged  to  the  girl  whom 
they  had  thrust  outside  their  little  intimate  family 
group. 

Would  Clive  come  to  see  her  to-day?  Sydney 
asked  herself  this  question  with  a  dull  sense  of  de- 
spair. If  he  would  only  tell  them  how  much  he 
wanted  to  come,  because  he  loved  her.  It  would 
be  so  simple.  They  might  be  angry  at  first,  but 
surely  they  would  soon  forgive  him. 

She  clung  to  the  flattering  belief  that  when  once 
she  was  Clive's  wife,  Roma  would  recover  some- 
thing of  her  old  feeling  for  her. 

She  turned  away  from  the  window,  and  made  her- 
self a  cup  of  tea,  heating  the  water  over  a  spirit- 
lamp.  Clive  had  insisted  upon  buying  tea  and  bis- 
cuits for  her  in  case  of  emergency,  and  she  found 
them  welcome  enough  now.  It  would  save  her  go- 
ing down  all  those  long  stairs  in  search  of  a  res- 
taurant where  she  could  have  a  cup  of  coffee.  And 
she  wasn't  really  hungry.  As  it  was,  she  had  some 
difficulty  in  swallowing  those  dry  biscuits. 

She  began  to  unpack  and  arrange  her  things.  She 
had  a  strong  feeling  that  if  she  could  only  begin 
to  work,  those  restless,  tumultuous  thoughts  would 
leave  her.  They  teased  her  brain  like  a  cloud  of 
worrying  gnats,  and  she  seemed  unable  to  escape 
them.  Work  would  perhaps  drive  them  away.  She 
wanted  to  paint  that  view  from  her  window  before 
the  early  autumn  mists  had  quite  left  it.  To-morrow 
she  would  get  up  much  earlier  on  purpose  to  paint 
it.  Clive  should  see,  when  he  came,  that  she  had 
not  been  idle,  that  she  was  really  in  earnest  about 
her  work. 

She  unfastened  the  wrappings  that  protected  the 
portrait  of  Roma,  and  drawing  forth  the  canvas 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     275 

set  it  on  an  easel.  She  sat  down  opposite  to  it, 
contemplating  it  with  an  almost  brooding  melan- 
choly, and  yet  with  a  frank  impartiality,  as  if  it 
had  been  the  achievement  of  some  hand  other  than 
her  own.  That  fine  glow  of  inspiration  which  had 
stimulated  her  when  she  painted  it  had  burned  down 
to  dead  ashes.  She  no  longer  loved  Roma  as  she 
had  loved  her  then.  She  had  even  to  resist  con- 
tinually the  impulse  to  distrust  her,  as  one  distrusts 
an  avowed  enemy.  But  the  picture  was  charming, 
it  was  the  real  Roma,  the  flesh-and-blood  woman 
who  had  once  for  her  spelt  perfection.  When  she 
and  Clive  were  married,  they  would  hang  it  up, 
and  look  at  it  often  and  discuss  it  quite  impartially. 
.  .  .  They  wouldn't  be  blinded  then  by  that  some- 
thing in  Roma  that  blinded  every  one  in  her  pres- 
ence. They  would  have  shaken  themselves  free — 
forever — -from  the  compelling  glamor  of  her  per- 
sonality. She  would  be  like  some  splendid,  beau- 
tiful, remembered  dream  of  the  past.  .  .  . 

But  would  she  ever  be  able  to  detach  Clive  from 
the  Cochranes  as  completely  as  all  that?  .  .  .  Syd- 
ney looked  at  the  portrait  again,  and  it  seemed  to 
her  that,  even  loving  Roma  as  she  had  done  when 
she  painted  it,  her  artist's  vision  had  been  able  sub- 
consciously to  detect  something  of  that  sinister,  al- 
most hypnotic,  power  which  Roma  exercised  over  all 
those  who  came  in  contact  with  her.  .  .  . 

It  was  then  that  Clive's  love  seemed  to  become 
unreal,  a  shadowy  thing,  without  substance.  She 
couldn't  believe  in  it  any  longer.  That  house  of 
theirs  with  the  portrait  of  Roma  hanging  on  the 
wall,  would  never  have  any  verification  in  fact.  It 
was  an  aerial  castle.  She  needed  his  dear  pres- 
ence, his  ardent,  eager  words  of  love,  his  whisper 
of,  Darling  Sydney!  to  assure  her  that  he  cared. 
Without  these  she  could  never  believe  it. 


276     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

All  that  day  she  was  quite  alone.  No  message 
came  to  console  her.  The  solitary  hours  moved  past 
on  slow,  leaden  feet,  a  funereal  procession.  She 
spent  the  morning  arranging  her  possessions,  and 
once  towards  midday  she  went  out  for  a  short  time, 
partook  of  a  frugal  meal,  and  hurried  home  again. 
She  was  so  afraid  Clive  might  come  in  her  absence 
that  she  could  hardly  bring  herself  even  to  do  this, 
but  hunger  compelled  her.  She  tried  to  work  and 
even  made  a  careful  drawing  of  the  abrupt  point 
formed  by  the  Dogana  with  the  domes  of  Santa 
Maria  della  Salute  beyond.  She  would  begin  to 
paint  it  quite  early  to-morrow  morning.  Clive 
should  see  it  when  he  came  to-morrow.  The 
thought  that  she  would  most  certainly  see  him  on 
the  following  day  consoled  her  a  little. 

At  night  before  going  to  bed,  she  looked  across 
the  lagoon  punctuated  with  those  shifting  lights 
from  boat  and  gondola,  and  saw  the  electric  lamps 
shining  steadily  upon  the  long  line  of  the  Lido. 
There  was  a  moon,  and  the  stars  overhead  were 
very  bright.  She  saw  the  massed  trees  in  dark, 
inky  blots.  A  cool  brackish  wind  was  blowing  in 
lightly,  waywardly,  from  the  sea.  And  although  she 
could  not  see  it,  she  knew  that  not  far  from  her 
the  figure  of  Fortune  on  the  golden  ball  of  the 
Dogana  was  holding  out  its  light  cloak  and  shifting 
in  response  to  that  fickle  wind. 

In  the  morning  a  note  was  brought  to  her  by 
her  landlady.  She  had  been  working  for  a  couple 
of  hours,  having  risen  early,  when  it  came.  Yes, 
it  had  been  brought  by  hand,  by  a  servant,  the  old 
woman  informed  her  in  the  rapid  Venetian  Italian 
which  is  so  hard  for  a  foreigner  to  understand. 
When  she  had  closed  the  door,  Sydney  went  over 
to  a  seat  by  the  window  and  opened  the  letter.  It 
was  the  first  she  had  ever  received  from  Clive,  and, 


277 

strange  to  say,  she  had  never  before  seen  his  hand- 
writing. It  was  clear  but  not  large,  the  conven- 
tional public-school  or  Oxford  hand. 

The  letter  was  not  very  long,  and  there  was  lit- 
tle in  it  for  the  most  famished  fancy  to  batten  upon. 
He  hadn't  been  able  to  get  away.  He  was  sure 
that  she  would  understand.  .  .  .  Moreton  was 
worse,  and  very  fretful,  and  frightened,  too,,  about 
himself,  which  was  rather  a  novel  condition  of 
things.  Roma  was  worn  out,  and  he  couldn't  leave 
her  to  cope  with  it  single-handed.  She  hadn't  found 
a  nurse  in  Venice,  and  they  had  sent  to  Milan  for 
one.  Until  she  came,  he  would  necessarily  be 
tied.  .  .  . 

Sydney  read  the  letter  with  its  little  hurried 
phrases,  and  the  signature,  Your  own  Clive.  But 
she  was  not  deceived.  There  was  no  urgency  in  his 
wish  to  come.  Roma  had  skillfully  brought  him 
back  to  his  old  allegiance.  And  she  knew  now 
how  firmly,  yet  how  invisibly,  Roma's  hands 
could  hold.  Would  Clive  ever  be  quite  free — soul- 
free?  .  .  . 

Her  sketch — a  slight  delicate  water-color — was 
finished.  Even  Sydney,  a  severe  critic  of  her  own 
work,  was  almost  satisfied  with  it.  It  was  Venice 
— the  Venice  that  Clive  had  once  told  her  she  did 
not  yet  know.  She  had  not  perhaps  tried  to  know 
it  very  thoroughly;  she  had  had  so  many  other 
things  to  think  of  during  her  few  months  there.  The 
novelty  of  it  all  had  confused  and  bewildered  her 
at  first.  But  now  she  was  going  to  learn  every- 
thing that  it  could  teach  her.  Not  only  that  tech- 
nical side  of  her  art,  which  was  the  first  narrow, 
limited  reason  of  her  coming  thither.  She  had  not 
then  seen  the  need  of  a  wider  and  more  spiritual 
vision  to  make  art  supremely  worth  while.  Even 
this  drawing  showed  an  advance  upon  her  previous 


work.     She  hoped  that  Clive  would  think  it  good — 
when  he  came. 

The  morning  passed  quickly  enough.  She  went 
out  as  usual  to  have  her  midday  meal,  the  only  sub- 
stantial one  her  means  admitted  of.  In  the  morn- 
ing and  evening  she  had  only  frugal  repasts,  pre- 
pared by  herself,  of  coffee,  eggs,  bread  and  fruit. 
She  returned  as  quickly  as  she  could,  still  fearful 
lest  Clive  should  come  in  her  absence.  She  inquired 
anxiously  if  any  one  had  called.  But  the  old 
woman  shook  her  head.  There  had  been  no  one — 
no  one  at  all.  Sydney  took  off  her  hat  and  lay  down 
for  a  little  while.  All  of  a  sudden  she  felt  tired 
and  dispirited.  Surely  Clive  would  find  means  of 
coming  to  see  her  to-day.  More  than  forty-eight 
hours  had  passed  since  she  left  the  Lido,  and  there 
had  only  been  that  one  little  note  to  comfort  her, 
to  assure  her  that  he  was  thinking  of  her.  .  .  . 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  when  she  heard  the  door- 
bell ring,  and  a  sound  of  voices  in  the  passage  out- 
side. She  went  to  the  door.  Her  face  was  all 
flushed  and  eager  with  anticipation.  But  the  fig- 
ure standing  there  was  a  woman's;  she  recognized 
at  once  the  dainty  spotlessness  of  Roma's  white  em- 
broidered dress.  But  in  her  present  mood  of  mor- 
bid depression  Sydney  was  thankful  to  see  even 
Roma.  She  would  surely  bring  her  news  of  Clive. 
She  ran  forward  eagerly  to  greet  her. 

"Oh,  Roma — how  good  of  you  to  come !  I'm  so 
glad  to  see  you !  Do  come  in.  .  .  ."  And  she 
threw  open  the  door  of  the  studio. 

Roma  put  her  arm  round  Sydney  and  bestowed 
a  light  kiss  upon  her  cheek. 

"Dear  Sydney,"  she  murmured,  touched  a  little  by 
the  spontaneous  enthusiasm  of  the  greeting.  She  did 
not  know  that  it  had  been  prepared  for  some  one 
else.  The  relations  of  Clive  and  Sydney  still  con- 


279 

tinued  to  puzzle  her.  Clive  was  reticent,  and  Syd- 
ney eternally  on  her  guard. 

Roma  Cochrane  entered  the  room  and  sat  do.wn 
on  a  chair  near  the  open  window.  She  seemed  to 
fill  the  rather  bare  and  shabby  apartment  with  some- 
thing of  her  own  decorative  perfection.  And  as  she 
looked  at  her,  Sydney  felt  a  strange  sinking  of  the 
heart.  She  was  such  a  raw,  unfledged  thing  beside 
Roma !  Clive  was  right.  Roma  would  never  ap- 
prove of  their  engagement,  never  consider  her 
worthy  of  Clive.  She  wouldn't,  however,  put  an 
end  to  it  clumsily  when  the  knowledge  of  it  reached 
her.  Clive  would  perhaps  hardly  be  conscious  that 
the  termination  of  it  was  not  his  own  doing,  accom- 
plished by  his  own  desire  and  of  his  own  will.  Roma 
always  laughed  frankly  at  his  frustrated  love-affairs. 
And  she  would  laugh  at  this  one,  not  the  less  frankly, 
directly  she  definitely  discovered  how  matters  stood 
between  them. 

The  very  fact  that  Clive  had  not  come  that  day 
was  an  added  proof  of  the  power  Roma  knew  so 
ceaselessly  how  to  exercise  over  him.  Yet  .  .  .  how 
much  of  it  had  been  her  doing?  Was  it  all  her  fault 
that  he  hadn't  been  able  to  come?  Or  had  he  lent 
himself  quite  willingly  to  her  decision?  It  would 
be  difficult  to  hazard  a  reply  to  these  difficult,  con- 
fusing questions. 

"Poor  Clive  has  you  quite  on  his  conscience,"  said 
Mrs.  Cochrane,  leaning  back  in  her  chair  and  fan- 
ning herself.  "He  feels  that  he  encouraged  you  to 
come  here  rather  than  go  home  at  once,  which  was 
my  advice  as  you  will  perhaps  remember.  And  now 
that  you're  here,  he  seems  to  be  afraid  that  you'll 
hate  it.  He  was  very  anxious  to  come  and  see  you 
himself  this  afternoon,  but  Moreton  wouldn't  hear 
of  it,  so  to  pacify  him  and  to  assure  him  that  you 
were  still  alive,  I  came  myself." 


280     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you.  .  .  .  How  is  Moreton 
to-day?"  Sydney  said.  The  vivid  color  had  faded 
from  her  face,  leaving  it  pale  and  impassive. 

She  was  thinking  inconsequently  that  Roma's 
beautiful  shining  presence  made  her  little  room  look, 
despite  all  her  care,  a  trifle  austere. 

"There's  no  improvement,"  said  Roma,  shortly. 
"The  doctor  came  as  usual,  and  says  he  must  be 
kept  very  quiet  and  not  worried  about  anything. 
I'm  glad  that  effort  of  making  a  new  will  is  off 
his  mind.  It  excited  him."  Her  eyes  rested  upon 
Sydney's  quiet  little  face. 

"He  made  it  then — just  as  you  told  me?" 

"Yes.  Hedged  about  with  all  kinds  of  ridiculous 
conditions.  It  won't  affect  me  at  all,  but  it  might 
very  possibly  affect  Clive." 

"Yes?" 

"He  had  such  very  strong  leanings,  you  see,  to- 
wards Catholicism  about  two  years  ago.  He  may 
only  have  put  away  the  idea  for  a  time,  thinking 
perhaps  that  if  anything  were  to  happen  to  More- 
ton^  he  could  take  it  up  again." 

Sydney  was  silent.  She  felt  that  Moreton's  ac- 
tion would  affect  both  herself  and  Clive.  One  of 
them  would  have  to  give  way,  and  in  her  heart  she 
knew  that  she  would  not  be  that  one.  She  had 
gone  too  far,  she  was  pledged.  .  .  . 

Roma's  high  sweet  voice  struck  across  her 
thoughts. 

"What  are  you  thinking  of,  dear  little  Sydney?" 

"I  was  thinking — of  what  you  were  saying." 

"I  don't  know  if  Moreton  has  told  Clive.  He 
tells  him  a  good  deal  about  his  business  affairs.  I 
sometimes  think  they  are  more  attached  to  each 
other  than  if  they  were  really  father  and  son.  You 
should  see  Clive  with  him  now^ — so  patient,  so  un- 
wearying. He  may  have  his  faults,  but  he's  the 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     281 

kindest  sick-nurse  in  the  world.  And  then,  of 
course,  with  him  it's  a  labor  of  love.  He's  very 
devoted  to  Moreton." 

"Yes,"  assented  Sydney. 

Yet  .  .  .  was  it  really  his  devotion  to  Moreton 
that  had  kept  him  away  from  her  for  nearly  two 
days?  Was  there  no  hour,  early  or  late,  that  he 
could  snatch  for  his  own  pleasure?  She  repulsed 
these  thoughts — they  were  unworthy. 

Roma  went  on  talking  about  her  husband  and 
Clive,  and  Sydney  listened,  trying  to  imagine  her- 
self as  a  person  who  was  wholly  unconcerned  with 
Clive,  his  goings-out  and  comings-in,  the  trivial  hap- 
penings of  his  life.  Only  thus,  she  felt,  could  she 
keep  her  face  under  control,  and  silence  the  impetu- 
ous words  that  rose  to  her  lips.  She  must  act  a 
part  in  the  little  tragic  comedy.  If  Roma  had  come 
to-day  to  find  out  anything  she  should  learn  noth- 
ing from  Sydney.  She  should  return  to  the  Lido 
no  wiser  than  when  she  left  it. 

"Clive  is  talking  of  running  home  for  a  bit  as 
soon  as  he  can  leave  Moreton." 

Roma  looked  closely  at  Sydney  as  she  said  these 
words,  as  if  to  see  what  effect  the  announcement 
would  have  upon  her.  But  she  could  learn  noth- 
ing from  the  pale,  studiously-impassive  countenance 
that  confronted  her. 

"Is  he?"  was  all  that  Sydney  could  find  to 
say. 

"Didn't  he  mention  it  to  you?  I  thought  you 
were  such  friends." 

"He  only  talked  of  it  very  vaguely." 

"He's  rather  secret  about  it.  I'm  afraid  that 
means  he's  got  some  new  attraction  in  London !" 

Sydney  did  not  answer.  Silence,  safe,  unbetray- 
ing,  was  her  only  refuge.  She  felt  the  urgent  need 
of  keeping  Clive's  secret  .  .  .  even  under  torture. 


282     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

She  wondered  why  that  word  arose  to  her  mind 
now,  suggested  by  Roma's  questioning. 

And  Roma  saw  the  firm  closing  of  the  lips,  the 
clenching  of  the  little  betraying  hands.  Something 
to  hide  there — the  most  elementary  knowledge  of 
psychology  taught  you  that.  .  .  . 

"It's  a  pity,  if  he  does  go,  because  then  you 
needn't  have  left  us.  The  nurse  when  she  comes 
could  have  occupied  his  room." 

"Oh,  I  shall  work  harder  alone,"  said  Sydney. 
"I've  been  quite  busy  to-day,  Roma.  I'll  show 
you  what  I've  done." 

The  tension  must  be  broken  at  all  costs.  She 
pulled  out  the  nearly  completed  sketch. 

Roma  looked  at  it  critically. 

"Yes,  it's  charming.  You  have  such  a  graceful 
talent,  Sydney.  One  feels  this  about  it,  though — 
that  if  you  studied  too  strenuously  you  might  ruin 
it.  It's  a  slight,  fragile,  little  gift,  very  charming 
and  individual.  Moreton  always  believes  in  a  hard, 
austere  school  to  bring  out  talent.  You've  heard 
him  say  sometimes  that  an  artist  needs  an  attic  and 
a  touch  of  starvation.  But  I  shouldn't  like  to  pre- 
scribe such  a  bitter  draught  for  my  little  Sydney!" 
She  put  out  her  hand  then  and  touched  Sydney's  with 
one  of  her  rare  and  caressing  gestures.  "I  feel  it 
might  destroy  the  gift  you  have." 

Sydney  thought  of  her  frugal  little  meals,  so  dif- 
ferent from  the  plenteous  abundance  that  charac- 
terized life  at  the  Lido.  But  they  were  still  very 
far  removed  from  starvation  rations,  although  she 
acknowledged  that  she  had  felt  unwonted  pangs  of 
hunger  towards  morning. 

"I've  missed  you  very  much,  my  dear  child." 
Roma  threw  a  warm  inflection  into  her  voice,  that 
for  the  moment  chased  the  girl's  miserable  distrust 
away. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     283 

"And  I've  missed  you,  Roma.  I  have  felt  a  little 
lonely!  Last  night  I  wanted  to  cry.  .  .  ." 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  It  was  always  diffi- 
cult for  her  to  resist  Roma's  tenderness. 

"Still,  I  do  agree  with  Moreton  that  solitude  and 
a  certain  amount  of  austerity  are  necessary  for  the 
artist.  Especially  at  first,  when  they  are  studying. 
That's  why  marriage  so  often  means  for  women 
the  death  of  any  talent  they  possess.  You're  such 
a  wise,  prudent  child  to  cultivate  singleness  of  pur- 
pose. You've  so  deliberately  slain  your  dreams  of 
love !  Few  of  us  have  the  courage  to  do  that." 

Sydney  felt  an  impulse  then  to  deny  the  statement, 
passionately,  categorically.  But  she  sat  there, 
wrapped  in  a  cold  attentive  calm.  Was  Roma  allud- 
ing to  Duncan  Turner  or  to  Clive?  It  was  impos- 
sible to  say.  Perhaps  she  had  only  made  the  state- 
ment so  as  to  elicit  an  impulsive  denial. 

"Sydney,  you  don't  say  anything!  You  never 
talk  to  me  confidentially  now.  But  I  suppose  you 
don't  write  to  Mr.  Turner  or  hear  from  him?" 

"He  did  write  once.  I'm  afraid  I  haven't  an- 
swered the  letter.  I  felt  that  chapter  had  come  to 
an  end." 

"Unfortunately  all  chapters  are  apt  to  have  se- 
quels," said  Roma,  with  a  touch  of  dryness.  "You 
can  never  be  sure  with  a  man.  Especially  when  he's 
so  completely  devoted  to  you  as  poor  Mr.  Turner 
was." 

"I'm  sure  that  chapter's  quite  closed,"  said  Syd- 
ney with  decision. 

"Sydney — is  it  because  we've  seen  less  of  each 
other  lately  that  I  find  you  just  a  tiny  bit  changed?" 
said  Roma. 

"Changed?"  repeated  Sydney. 

"I  sometimes  fancy  your  affection  for  me  isn't 
quite  what  it  was." 


284     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

Sydney  stared  back  into  the  beautiful,  questioning 
eyes,  and  wondered  why  her  old  devotion  had  so 
utterly  perished  before  the  royal  exigence  of  this 
new  overwhelming  love.  .  .  .  Changed?  Not 
the  same  as  it  used  to  be?  She  looked  at  Roma 
uncomprehendingly.  Why,  of  course  it  had 
changed.  .  .  . 

"It  was  only  my  fancy,  then?"  said  Roma. 

Sydney  had  the  feeling  that  she  was  being  slowly 
tortured  into  making  a  confession.  The  only  plan 
was  to  concentrate  her  whole  will  upon  resisting  and 
frustrating  Roma's  intention.  To  hold  out  as  long 
as  she  could.  .  .  . 

"Do  you  know  I  was  almost  afraid  to  come  here 
to-day  lest  you  shouldn't  be  quite  pleased  to  see 
me?  One  has  that  feeling  about  some  people — 
that  one  isn't  nearly  sure  enough  of  them  to  visit 
them  unless  one  is  expected.  And  I  had  that  feel- 
ing about  coming  here  to-day.  You  see,  I  feel  that 
you've  never  really  told  me  your  true  reason  for 
leaving  us." 

"But  you  ought  to  know,  Roma,  that  I'm  always 
so  glad — so  very  glad — to  see  you!" 

"Clive  noticed  too  that  you  had  changed  a  little 
towards  me.  He's  very  observant,  you  know,  and 
I  had  never  mentioned  it  to  him.  It's  odd  how 
quickly  he  notices  some  things,  and  how  blind  he  is 
to  others.  Men  are  often  like  that — they  will  miss 
something  that's  right  under  their  nose  and  then  dis- 
cover what's  almost  imperceptible !  For  instance, 
they  often  don't  realize  an  obvious  situation  unless 
it's  put  quite  brutally  and  frankly  before  them. 
That's  why  I  sometimes  wonder  if  Clive  realizes 
how  much  we — Moreton  and  I — count  for  in  his 
life.  He  takes  us  rather  too  much  for  granted, 
though  I  have  given  him  a  lesson  about  that  every 
now  and  then.  The  only  thing  that  would  perhaps 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     285 

make  him  realize  it  would  be  if  some  one  else — a 
fourth  person — were  to  try  to/  come  definitely  be- 
tween ourselves  and  him." 

Roma  uttered  this  speech  in  an  almost  mechani- 
cal tone,  as  if  she  were  slowly  revolving  some  new 
idea  in  her  own  mind  and  regarding  it  from  all  its 
aspects.  But  to  Sydney,  conscience-stricken,  every 
word  seemed  to  hold  a  subtle  and  peculiar  menace. 
Some  one  else  ...  a  fourth  person?  .  .  .  She  felt 
the  shaft  pierce  her  own  heart,  and  she  was  certain 
that  Roma  had  not  drawn  her  bow  at  a  venture. 
There  was  a  considered  intention  in  each  one  of 
those  words. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Roma's  voice, 
pitilessly  charming,  broke  the  little  pause : 

"But  then  the  fourth  person  would  have  to  be 
most  dreadfully  blind  and  undiscerning  not  to  have 
discovered  at  once  not  only  what  Clive  is  to  us, 
but  also  what's  far  more  important — what  we  are 
to  Clive  I" 

Sydney  averted  her  face  a  little,  and  her  eyes  trav- 
eled over  the  wide  pale  spaces  of  the  lagoon  touched 
to  rose-color  now  in  the  sunset.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  Roma  was  deliberately  punishing  her  for  hav- 
ing become  engaged  to  Clive.  She  had  relegated  her 
to  that  category  of  blind  undiscerning  persons  who 
had  overlooked  the  fundamental  forces  of  affection 
and  duty  that  guided  Clive's  life.  She  had  not  re- 
alized the  importance  of  Moreton  and  Roma.  A 
guilty  remembrance  of  her  own  hope  to  detach  him 
completely  from  them  after  her  marriage,  rose  to 
her  mind.  But  it  was  only  when  she  was  actually 
with  Clive  that  she  had  ventured  to  minimize  the 
influence  of  these  two  people  who  so  ruled  and 
swayed  his  life.  With  Roma  before  her,  coolly  and 
sharply  discussing  the  situation,  presenting  it  with 
extraordinary  subtlety  as  a  hypothetical  one,  Syd- 


286     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

ney  felt  utterly  powerless.  She  would  never  be  able 
to  take  Clive  away  from  them.  He  would  never  be 
permitted  to  rupture  those  ancient  ties.  Moreton 
stood  in  a  parental  relation  to  him.  He  had  loved 
and  cared  for  Clive  from  his  boyhood.  And  now 
that  he  was  growing  old  and  his  infirmity  was  in- 
creasing, he  leaned  on  his  youth  and  strength.  And 
Roma  was  there  to  see  that  the  youth  and  strength 
were  punctually  offered. 

Sydney  felt  that,  even  in  this  brief  separation, 
Clive's  ardor  must  have  cooled.  He  was  absorbed 
once  more  in  Moreton,  had  returned  to  his  old  alle- 
giance with  perhaps  even  a  little  inward  contrition 
for  that  recent  lapse.  Yes,  he  had  gone  back  to 
Moreton,  and  it  was  no  doubt  Roma  who  had  tacitly 
indicated  the  desirability  of  this  course.  Sydney 
looked  at  Roma  now  with  a  new  curiosity,  blent  with 
a  fearful  admiration.  Yes,  she  had  the  pitiless 
power  of  the  cold  and  selfish  woman.  But  she  was 
beautiful,  and  it  is  the  common  impulse  of  mankind 
to  forgive  the  beautiful  all  things.  That  was  why 
Roma  would  always  be  forgiven.  The  others  were 
the  blind  and  undiscerning  ones  who  did  not  under- 
stand. .  .  . 

"I  must  tell  Clive  how  comfortable  the  place 
looks,"  said  Roma,  rising  and  going  towards  the 
door.  "He's  a  dear — -I  don't  know  what  we  should 
do  without  him.  You  do  like  him,  don't  you,  Syd- 
ney? You  get  on  much  better  together  than  you 
used  to?" 

"Much  better."  Her  throat  was  dry,  but  she  was 
able  to  smile  as  she  met  Roma's  look. 

"I've  been  almost  jealous  sometimes,  only  I've 
seen  Clive  in  love  too  often.  And  this  time  he 
wasn't  even  beginning  to  be  in  love — I  know  the 
symptoms,  and  besides  he  always  tells  me." 

Sydney  was  standing  near  Roma,  and  her  hand 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     287 

rested  on  the  back  of  a  chair.     Roma  put  her  hand 
on  Sydney's  and  let  it  lie  there  for  a  moment. 

"And  you — you  needn't  tell  me  that  you're  quite 
heart-whole,  my  dear  child !  Your  leaving  us — your 
ambition  to  work  harder — such  a  sensible  motive — 
convinced  me  of  that  You've  got  a  cool  heart  as 
well  as  a  cool  head,  little  Sydney!" 

Sydney  was  silent,  although  she  felt  as  if  her 
very  silence,  unpunctuated  by  eager  denial  or  acquies- 
cence, must  seem  ambiguous  to  Roma.  But  to  her 
the  element  of  intrigue  was  nauseating.  All  that 
was  frank  and  simple  in  her  nature  revolted  against 
it.  She  had  never  wished  to  keep  her  engagement 
a  secret  from  Roma.  She  had  been  impelled  by 
Clive  to  adopt  this  policy.  She  felt  her  hand  grow 
hot  and  damp  under  Roma's  cool  touch,  but  she  did 
not  dare  to  draw  it  away.  She  kept  very  still,  the 
muscles  of  face  and  body  were  under  the  most  rigid 
control.  But  there  was  again  self-betrayal  in  this 
concentrated  immovability. 

"Well,  1  must  be  going,"  said  Roma;  "it's  getting 
late,  and  I've  paid  you  an  unconscionable  visit.  But 
I  simply  couldn't  bear  the  thought  of  your  being 
left  quite  alone,  feeling  perhaps  bored  and  hipped 
in  your  new  solitude.  And  when  Moreton's  ill,  I 
know  I'm  much  less  necessary  to  him  than  Clive  is. 
She  smiled  and  kissed  Sydney.  "I  shall  come  again 
very  soon  and  see  how  you're  getting  on,"  she  prom- 
ised her. 

Sydney's  relief  at  the  termination  of  the  ordeal 
was  intense.  She  lifted  a  stone-cold  face  to  receive 
that  parting  kiss. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

THERE  was  no  hope  of  Clive's  coming  that  eve- 
ning, and  after  Roma  had  departed,  Sydney 
resolved  to  go  for  a  walk.     She  had  taken  no  ex- 
ercise for  two  days,  and  a  restless  feeling  came  over 
her,  driving  her  out  of  doors. 

The  evening  was  fine  and  very  warm,  with  a  faint 
hint  of  sirocco  in  the  air,  that  made  the  loitering 
crowds  move  more  slowly  than  usual.  The  Piazza 
of  St.  Mark's  was  thronged  with  its  usual  vast  con- 
course representative  of  many  nations.  People  were 
strolling  up  and  down,  often  arm  in  arm ;  others  were 
sitting  outside  the  cafes  drinking  iced  coffee  or  syrup 
or  wine.  A  band  was  playing.  Venetian  women 
passed  slowly  by,  wearing  their  deep-fringed  shawls 
with  incomparable  grace.  One  or  two  of  them  had 
that  superb  red  hair  which  is  so  seldom  seen,  others 
were  very  dark,  dark  as  Neapolitans,  a  few  were  as 
fair,  with  their  blond  hair  and  blue  eyes,  as  many 
of  the  daughters  of  the  North.  There  were  men  of 
that  type  too,  tall,  bronzed,  fair-haired  and  blue- 
eyed,  the  Viking  type  that  breeds  the  sailor  in  all 
lands. 

Sydney  turned  down  the  narrow  street  under  the 
clock  and  entered  the  crowded  ways  of  the  Mer- 
ceria,  which  through  winding  calli  leads  from  St. 
Mark's  to  the  Rialto.  She  resolved  to  take  the 
steamer  back  to  the  Riva.  There  was  more  air  on 
the  Grand  Canal,  and  she  felt  a  little  hot  and  fever- 
ish. Some  people  she  remembered  complained  of 
fever  when  the  sirocco  was  blowing,  it  was  often 
a  malarial  wind.  .  .  . 

288 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     289 

It  was  dark  by  the  time  she  reached  her  abode  and 
wearily  climbed  those  steep  flights  of  ill-lighted 
stairs.  She  wished  she  had  thought  of  having  some 
coffee  when  she  was  out,  it  would  have  saved  her 
the  trouble  of  making  it  now. 

"I  must  remember  I'm  not  living  in  a  house  where 
meals  are  regularly  and  punctually  served  without 
any  personal  effort,"  she  told  herself  with  a  wry 
smile.  Of  course,  she  was  bound  to  find  it  rather 
a  hardship  at  first  to  prepare  her  own  food.  But 
life  in  the  hospital  had  taught  her  various  forms 
of  usefulness,  and  she  could  cook  fairly  well,  and 
was  not  afraid  of  hard  work.  After  supper  she 
stayed  up  as  long  as  she  could,  unable  to  face  those 
hours  of  wakefulness  that  must  surely  lie  in  front 
of  her  to-night.  She  occupied  herself  with  some  sew- 
ing, with  putting  everything  ready  for  the  day's  work 
to-morrow. 

The  moon  hung  low  over  the  lagoon,  whitening 
it  to  polished  argent.  Dusky  towers  lifted  their 
slender  shapes  to  the  stars.  The  cry  of  a  gondo- 
lier, weird,  half-savage,  broke  the  silence.  Far,  far 
below  she  could  hear  the  lapping  of  the  water 
against  the  stones. 

To-morrow.  .  .  .  Yes,  Clive  would  certainly 
come  to-morrow.  He  would  find  some  plausible  ex- 
cuse for  leaving  Moreton.  He  couldn't  let  her 
spend  another  solitary  day  without  a  single  glimpse 
of  him. 

With  these  flattering  but  unconvincing  thoughts, 
Sydney  went  to  bed,  not  to  lie  awake  as  she  had 
anticipated,  but  to  sleep  a  troubled,  restless  sleep 
punctured  by  dreams  of  Roma,  who  assured  her 
that  Clive  had  never  loved  her  at  all. 

When  she  awoke,  day  had  already  broken.  The 
mists  of  an  autumn  morning  hung  over  the  scene. 
The  lagoon  was  all  of  pale  silver  with  the  shadows 


29o     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

painted  in  soft,  deep  tones  of  velvet-gray.  The  Lido 
showed  a  vague  smudge  in  the  distance.  There  were 
no  accurate  defined  outlines  anywhere;  everything 
was  blurred. 

As  she  dressed,  a  bell  sounded  low  and  deep  from 
the  neighboring  tower.  It  was  the  Angelus,  the 
bell  that  summoned  its  listeners  to  prayer.  It  was 
loud,  insistent,  peremptory,  rather  than  persuasive. 
People  were  perhaps  praying  now  in  many  of  the 
churches  and  the  convent  chapels  of  Venice.  People 
who  habitually  dedicated  that  first  hour  of  the  new 
day  to  God.  Sydney  listened  to  it  almost  in  awe. 
It  awoke  that  train  of  thought  in  her  mind  which 
for  some  days  she  had  sedulously  thrust  from  her. 
Now  she  had  a  strong  wish  to  go  out  to  one  of  those 
churches  and  join  the  kneeling,  devout  worshipers 
already  assembled  there.  To  pray — and  to  believe 
that  your  prayers  were  heard!  Not  always  an- 
swered in  the  way  you  wished,  but  heard.  There 
was  comfort  in  the  thought.  She  would  pray  that 
Clive  might  come  to  see  her  that  day.  Clive,  the 
man  who  had  said  that  he  loved  her  and  asked  her 
to  be  his  wife.  She  would  pray,  too,  that  she  might 
keep  his  love  forever,  that  if  need  be  he  would  be 
willing  to  face  poverty  for  her  sake.  His  love  was 
a  precious  gift.  She  felt  that  she  would  die  if  it 
were  taken  away  from  her.  .  .  . 

The  chiming  bells  had  ceased,  but  the  wish  to  go 
into  one  of  those  splendid  old  churches  whose  walls 
had  heard  the  prayers  of  countless  generations  was 
still  with  her.  She  wanted  to  be  there,  a  kneeling, 
believing  worshiper.  Believing  that  God  would 
listen,  as  a  father  listens  to  the  voice  of  his  crying, 
supplicating  child.  .  .  . 

She  thought  of  St.  Placid's  face,  young,  boyish, 
with  the  nail  piercing  his  forehead.  It  must  be  ter- 
rible as  well  as  beautiful  to  die  like  that,  knowing 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     291 

that  the  Everlasting  Arms  were  waiting  to  embrace 
and  receive  the  martyr  who  had  generously  given 
the  last  drop  of  his  blood  for  the  Faith.  And  then 
her  thoughts  wandered  to  that  first  night  of  hur- 
ried journeying  across  the  lagoon,  and  of  the  little 
flickering  lamp  that  burned  before  the  shrine  of  the 
Madonna  lifted  above  the  cool,  vast  expanse  of  wa- 
ter to  remind  the  passer-by  of  the  Child  that  nestled 
in  her  arms. 

Sydney  went  quickly  down  the  long  flights  of 
stairs.  She  crossed  a  little  bridge  and  hurried  to- 
wards St.  Mark's.  The  Piazza  was  almost  empty 
at  that  early  hour.  A  few  workmen  were  moving 
across  it  on  their  way  to  the  day's  task.  Some  men 
were  sitting  drinking  their  early  coffee  under  the 
arcades,  and  scanning  the  morning  papers.  But  Syd- 
ney hardly  noticed  them.  She  went  quickly  towards 
the  church,  dim,  and  jeweled  with  exquisite  mosaics. 
As  yet  there  were  not  many  people,  but  Mass  was 
being  said  at  the  altar  that  holds  the  famous  picture 
of  the  Madonna,  and  she  could  see  a  few  figures 
clustered  in  the  seats  in  front  of  it.  She  took  her 
place  among  them,  and  kneeling  down  hid  her  face 
in  her  hands.  Surely  this  would  comfort  her.  .  .  . 
But  the  tears  streamed  down  her  face.  She  was  tired, 
exhausted  and  utterly  overwrought.  That  feverish 
life  of  alternate  hope  and  despair,  joy  and  anxiety, 
of  the  last  few  days  had  had  its  lamentable  effect 
upon  her  physical  health.  And  even  now  she  felt 
not  so  much  soothed  as  completely  astray.  She  had 
no  place  here,  she  was  a  pilgrim,  a  stranger,  and  she 
looked  at  those  kneeling  forms  around  her  with  a 
dull  envy.  Many  of  them,  to  judge  from  their  ap- 
pearance, must  be  very  poor  indeed,  yet  they  all  pos- 
sessed something  that  had  been  denied  to  herself. 
In  all  their  cares  and  sorrows,  disappointments  and 
bereavements,  they  had  a  solid,  never-failing,  perma- 


292     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

nent  source  of  consolation.  The  Church  was  always 
there,  from  cradle  to  grave,  to  succor  and  sanctify 
and  strengthen  her  children.  There  was  no  dilemma 
in  which  she  could  not  counsel  them,  no  grief  that 
she  could  not  console.  And  for  all  her  children 
she  had  her  immutable,  unchanging  laws.  Obedi- 
ence to  those  laws  could  sometimes  only  be  accom- 
plished with  much  pain  and  sacrifice  and  loss.  But 
they  were  never  reasonless  nor  capricious.  They 
developed  strength  rather  than  encouraged  weak- 
ness, and  their  whole  intention  was  to  discipline  the 
soul  to  a  spiritual  perfection.  Be  ye  therefore  per- 
fect. .  .  .  I  will  show  him  how  great  things  he  must 
suffer  for  My  Name's  sake.  .  .  .  Words  such  as 
these  floated  through  her  brain.  She  roused  her- 
self. Why,  they  were  like  a  clarion  call !  It  would 
be  a  sluggish,  ignoble  soul  indeed  that  would  not  re- 
spond eagerly,  generously,  even  as  St.  Placid  had 
responded.  .  .  . 

Sydney  lifted  her  face  and  watched  attentively  the 
grave  and  considered  gestures  and  movements  of  the 
priest  as  he  performed  that  daily  act  of  miracle  and 
oblation.  The  bell  rang  and  she  saw  the  Host  up- 
lifted, and  then  the  gleaming  chalice.  She  bowed 
her  head.  Faith  is  a  plant  that  to  many  is  of  slow 
and  difficult  growth,  and  it  is  not  easy  perhaps  for 
any  convert  to  designate  the  exact  moment  in  which, 
like  St.  Paul,  he  became  blind  to  earthly  things  in 
order  to  receive  that  divine  gift.  Its  first  sowing 
is  often  imperceptible,  but  Sydney  knew  that  her  own 
initiation  had  been  on  that  night  of  her  arrival  in 
Venice  when  she  saw  the  solitary  lamp  flickering  be- 
fore the  shrine  of  the  Madonna  in  the  middle  of 
the  lagoon.  That  light  had  been  to  her  a  beacon, 
arousing  and  stimulating  her  imagination,  arresting 
her  attention  in  a  way  she  could  never  forget.  Often, 
she  had  put  all  thought  of  it  aside.  Clive  had  even 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     293 

urged  her  to  take  no  step  until  after  their  marriage. 
But  this  morning  the  call  to  prayer  had  been  too 
strong  for  her  to  resist.  Such  obedience  often  wins 
a  great  reward.  For  behold  he  prayeth  is  still  the 
reason  for  the  bestowal  of  many  a  spiritual  gift  and 
grace.  In  that  first  agonized,  ignorant  seeking  after 
God,  the  seed  of  many  a  conversion  has  been  sown. 

Sydney  no  longer  felt  a  stranger  and  astray.  This 
was  her  home,  to  which  she  had  only  to  entreat 
entrance  and  it  would  be  given  to  her.  She  had  the 
feeling  that  the  Madonna  was  holding  out  tender, 
welcoming  arms  to  her. 

She  was  strangely  comforted  and  quieted.  It  was 
nearly  nine  o'clock  when  she  returned  home,  after 
partaking  of  a  hasty  cup  of  coffee  in  the  Piazza. 
The  sun  had  risen,  and  had  chased  all  those  pearly 
mists  and  deep  velvet-gray  shadows  away.  Sky  and 
lagoon  were  bright  blue,  and  the  water  was  flecked 
with  sparkling  gold.  In  the  distance  the  massed 
trees  on  the  Lido  looked  lustrously  green.  It  was 
a  beautiful  day.  And  most  certainly  it  would  bring 
Clive.  The  Lido  was  so  near — he  could  surely  find 
time  to  come. 

The  day  passed.  She  worked  all  the  morning 
with  close,  absorbed  concentration.  After  luncheon 
she  felt  drowsy  and  lay  down  to  sleep.  But  sleep, 
when  it  came,  brought  with  it  dreams  like  a  cinemato- 
graph gone  mad,  offering  perpetually  changing 
scenes  that  had  neither  sequence  nor  even  any  rela- 
tion to  each  other.  She  woke  at  last  with  a  dull, 
heavy  feeling  in  her  head.  It  was  nearly  three 
o'clock.  She  put  on  a  thin  dress,  for  the  afternoon 
was  hot,  and  waited  for  Clive's  coming. 

Perhaps  Moreton  was  worse.  He  was  purposely 
detaining  Clive.  She  pictured  Clive  sitting  by  his 
side  in  the  darkened  room,  talking  in  a  low  voice, 
reading  aloud  a  little  perhaps,  administering  food 


294     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

and  medicine.  Not  grudging  the  hours  spent  thus 
away  from  her. 

Evening  came.  The  hot  September  day  burned 
to  a  close.  The  red  and  golden  sky  made  a  pas- 
sionate background  for  the  cold,  pure  peace  of  the 
great  dome  of  Santa  Maria  della  Salute.  It  red- 
dened to  crimson  the  group  of  buildings,  the  slender 
campanile,  on  the  island  of  San  Giorgio.  The 
golden  ball  on  the  Dogana  was  afire  with  light.  She 
watched  the  color  fade.  Clive  had  not  come.  This 
was  the  third  day  they  had  spent  apart.  .  .  . 

In  the  morning  she  was  heavy-eyed.  She  felt  too 
ill  to  go  out  to  church  as  she  had  done  yesterday. 
But  she  was  up  very  early,  and  began  to  paint  be- 
fore the  sun  was  fully  risen.  The  scene  was  so 
exquisite,  a  beautiful  repetition  of  yesterday's.  The 
same  pearly  lights  escaping  from  the  mists.  The 
same  velvet  shadows  delicately  blurred.  The  same 
cool  rush  of  life-giving  wind  brimming  into  the 
room  like  a  draught  of  wine,  refreshing,  invigorat- 
ing. She  saw  the  line  of  tall  palaces  stretching  away 
along  the  Grand  Canal,  their  details  lost  in  shadow. 
Purple  shadows,  jade-colored  shadows,  and  that 
pure  white  light  upon  the  lagoon.  Here  and  there 
the  summits  of  tower  or  palace  received  the  first 
touch  of  the  sun,  and  showed  white  high-lights  of 
piercing  brilliancy.  The  black  shapes  of  gondolas, 
moving  swiftly  and  stealthily,  made  it  easier  to  de- 
termine all  lesser  color  values.  The  solitary  figure 
that  guided  each  one  struck  her  afresh  with  the  per- 
fection of  its  poise,  the  vigorous  and  effective  sim- 
plicity of  its  movements.  Over  there  on  the  lagoon 
some  idle  golden  and  pearl-colored  sails  hung  mo- 
tionlessly. 

Sydney  worked  with  feverish  energy,  like  one  in- 
spired and  driven  by  a  strong  imperious  force.  She 
was  nervous,  almost  ill,  her  physical  condition  was 


295 

overwrought,  but  like  most  artists  she  worked  bet- 
ter in  that  state.  The  picture  grew  rapidly  under 
her  hand.  It  was  beautiful,  but  she  knew  that  it 
also  had  force.  It  was  an  impression  of  that  wak- 
ing light  when  Venice  emerges  from  the  mists  of 
night  and  receives  the  first  kiss  of  the  sun.  Venice 
ought  to  be  painted  at  dawn — so  ran  her  thoughts — > 
when  it  was  a  city  of  liquid  pearl  and  faint  gold 
and  dim  shadow.  People  who  did  not  see  it  at 
that  hour  missed  something  of  its  intimate  splen- 
dor, its  austere  cold  loveliness,  when  its  gray  pal- 
aces, touched  frugally  with  gold,  were  reflected  in 
jade-colored  canals,  and  its  domes  and  towers  were 
lifted  to  receive  that  first  faint  illumination.  The 
hour  of  ringing,  chiming  bells  sounding  their  call  to 
prayer,  of  the  cries  of  early  fruit-vendors,  of  the 
wakening  stir  on  narrow  calli,  of  the  slow  dispersal 
of  mists  on  the  broad,  pale  lagoon.  .  .  . 

When  Clive  came  he  must  see  this  picture,  even 
though  it  were  still  in  an  unfinished  state.  He  was 
a  good  judge,  surer  than  Roma,  kinder  than  More- 
ton.  He  had  vision  and  understanding,  and  he  be- 
lieved whole-heartedly  in  her  gift.  When  Clive 
came.  .  .  .  Her  heart  beat  a  little  quicker  at  the 
thought. 

For  of  course  to-day — the  fourth  day  of  her  ab- 
sence— he  would  be  certain  to  come. 

It  was  a  day  of  slowly-growing  disappointment. 
Even  its  early  promise  of  beautiful  weather  was  un- 
fulfilled. A  wind  blew  in  from  the  sea  towards 
evening,  and  rain  fell.  The  Lido  was  Hidden  in 
mist  that  clung  about  it  like  a  fine  gray  web.  The 
fishing  boats  sailed  out  and  vanished  like  specters. 
All  that  fragile  gold  that  had  touched  Venice  to 
splendor  in  the  morning  had  gone,  leaving  no  trace. 
Venice  was  gray,  austere,  wrapped  in  her  mist- 
garments.  She  was  the  Venice  of  the  stern  and 


296     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

grim  race  of  men  who  had  fought  for  her,  died 
for  her,  who  had  trafficked  in  far  lands  to  bring 
treasure  home  to  her  in  bygone  days.  The  Venice 

of  the  great  Doges,  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs 

Sydney  feared  her  to-day  in  this  obscurely  hostile 
mood.  She  felt  almost  as  if  in  her  new  sternness 
of  aspect  she  were  demanding  some  sacrifice  of  her. 

Sacrifice  of  what?  Of  Clive?  Of  Roma?  Of 
her  art — her  own  life? 

She  asked  herself  these  questions  as  she  gazed 
down  into  that  empty  cup  of  mist. 

Clive  had  not  come;  perhaps  indeed  to-day  the 
weather  had  deterred  him.  Or  it  might  be  that 
Moreton  was  worse,  and  Roma  had  assured  him 
that  it  was  his  duty  to  remain  with  his  cousin.  Roma 
would  keep  Clive  thus  under  her  eye,  away  from 
temptation,  from  possible  danger. 

There  was  one  moment  when  Sydney  actually  con- 
templated taking  a  steamer  to  the  Lido  and  vis- 
iting the  villa.  But  Roma  had  said  that  one  must 
feel  very  sure  of  people  to  visit  them  unexpectedly. 
She  saw  in  those  words  a  practical  hint  for  her 
own  future  guidance.  Yet  under  ordinary  circum- 
stances there  would  have  been  nothing  inappropri- 
ate or  unusual  about  such  a  visit.  It  would  have 
been  a  commonplace  act  of  courtesy  to  go  and  in- 
quire after  Moreton.  But  to  go  and  seek  out  Clive 
in  this  way  was  impossible  to  her,  the  very  thought 
touched  her  pride  to  the  quick  as  she  banished  it 
She  must  just  wait  until  he  chose  to  come  and  ex- 
plain. Probably  Moreton,  at  a  hint  from  Roma, 
was  keeping  him  chained  to  the  sick-room.  Sydney 
felt  more  and  more  certain  that  somehow  or  other 
Roma  had  contrived  to  obtain  at  least  some  faint 
knowledge  of  the  truth. 

Sydney  suffered,  as  a  child  suffers  before  its  first 
experience  of  genuine,  unassuageable  pain.  She 


297 

loved  Clive  very  deeply,  and  perhaps  this  tormented, 
stricken  love  of  hers  had  gained  in  profundity  be- 
cause she  actually  feared  now  that  he  had  deserted 
her.  If  he  had  been  here,  had  recovered  for  her 
the  simple  happiness  of  those  first  hours  of  their 
engagement,  she  would  not  have  stopped  thus  to 
analyze  its  precise  measure.  Now  everything 
seemed  to  increase  her  love,  that  stirring  of  jealous 
fear  when  she  thought  of  Roma's  influence,  a  dread 
that  he  had  learned  of  that  new  will  of  Moreton's 
which  was  such  an  instrument  in  itself  to  compro- 
mise their  future,  the  growing  anguish  caused  by 
his  silence,  and  the  cold  separation  that  enfolded 
them.  It  was  a  bitter  moment  for  her.  She  was 
ill  at  ease,  restless,  she  could  not  eat  or  sleep.  She 
sat  there  by  the  window  waiting;  her  dry,  hard  eyes 
straining  across  the  mists  that  shrouded  the  lagoon. 
Then  she  threw  herself  on  the  divan.  Her  lips 
framed  his  name  involuntarily.  Once  she  cried 
aloud:  "Clive — Clive!  Do  come — even  if  it's  only 
for  five  minutes,  to  tell  me  that  you  don't  care  any 
more."  Yes,  it  would  be  easier  to  bear  that  blow 
than  to  go  on  enduring  this  suspense  that  seemed  to 
make  her  "wither  away  with  fear." 

Night  had  come  when  she  rose  heavily  and  closed 
the  window,  to  shut  out  the  sight  and  sound  of  that 
heavily-falling  rain  that  beat  so  steadily  on  land  and 
water.  Presently  she  took  down,  almost  at  random, 
a  little  book  from  the  shelf.  Anything  to  distract 
her  mind.  She  opened  it  listlessly,  and  a  sentence 
struck  her  eyes  with  almost  the  force  of  a  blow. 

"So  do  thou  also  learn  to  part  with  the  necessary 
and  beloved  friend  for  the  love  of  God.  .  .  /'  She 
dropped  the  book  and  the  words  danced  before  her 
eyes  in  letters  of  flame.  Then  she  once  more  took 
up  the  Imitation  and  read  slowly,  carefully,  the 
whole  of  that  chapter,  which  contains  perhaps  more 


298     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

than  any  other  a  counsel  of  perfection,  difficult  for 
the  human  heart  to  assimilate.  But  it  was  always 
to  those  first  words  that  she  turned  again  and  again. 

She  knew  now  that  ever  since  Clive  had  first  told 
her  that  he  loved  her  and  had  urged  her  to  put  on 
one  side,  at  least  until  after  their  marriage,  the 
thought  of  becoming  a  Catholic,  she  had  endeavored 
against  her  own  conscience  to  carry  out  his  wishes. 
She  had  stifled  those  spiritual  aspirations  which 
Venice  had  awakened  within  her.  And  now  she  saw 
quite  clearly  that  her  becoming  a  Catholic  even  after 
her  marriage  would  ruin  Clive's  worldly  prospects, 
would  increase  the  hostility  and  dislike  which  he  was 
convinced  the  Cochranes  would  display  towards  such 
an  alliance.  If  she  became  a  Catholic  now,  she 
might  even  lose  him  altogether.  And  she  refused 
to  make  that  sacrifice.  God  wouldn't  ask  it  of  her. 
This  love  of  hers  was  a  beautiful,  holy  thing.  And 
then  she  shivered  a  little.  God  sometimes  not  only 
demanded  sacrifices  but  exacted  them.  Sometimes  a 
soul  that  had  turned  to  Him  and  received  the  faith 
in  one  sudden  blinding  glimpse  was  not  permitted 
to  retrace  her  steps.  The  old  doors  were  shut, 
the  old  ways  darkened.  .  .  .  "For  I  will  show  him 
how  great  things  he  must  suffer  for  My  Name's 
sake.  .  .  ."  Yes,  you  saw  that  brilliant,  overwhelm- 
ing light,  and  you  fell  blinded  by  the  way.  You 
could  not  of  yourself  proceed  on  your  journey  .  .  . 
you  were  a  little  child  that  had  to  be  led  by  the 
hand.  .  .  . 

The  Purgative  Way — the  Dark  Night  of  the 
Soul.  .  .  .  The  language  of  Mysticism  is  not  known 
only  now  to  the  scholar  and  the  saint.  Sydney  had 
read  books  on  the  subject — -books  that  were  like  a 
scientific  treatise  in  their  cold  and  brilliant  analysis 
and  dissection  of  those  higher  soul-states.  But  no\\ 
she  felt  their  truth  in  a  personal,  intimate  manner 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     299 

The  Purgative  Way — the  soul  stripped  of  all  earthly 
shackles  so  that  nothing  should  cumber  or  impede 
its  wings  on  their  swift  flight  to  God.  A  bitter 
and  painful  process,  yet  the  saints  had  accepted  it 
eagerly.  The  soul  that  had  received  the  Divine  call 
to  perfection  answered  gladly,  generously.  Its  only 
aim  was  to  cooperate,  to  yield  utterly  to  the  Will 
thus  made  known.  E  la  sua  volontate  e  nostra 
pace.  .  .  . 

From  her  own  art  she  had  already  learned  some- 
thing of  the  psychology  of  vocation,  the  need  of 
sacrifice,  of  solitude,  of  close  deliberate  concentra- 
tion. But  this  was  a  fiery  process  that  seemed  to 
hold  something  almost,  at  first  glance,  cruel.  It 
was  something  that  absorbed  all  other  things  in  its 
own  white  heat  into  which  the  soul  had  plunged  so 
recklessly,  forgetful  of  those  earthly  gifts  and  am- 
bitions that  were  cast  aside  and  trampled  upon  like 
the  forgotten  toys  of  childhood. 

All  night  the  words  danced  before  her  eyes  alike 
in  her  dreams  as  in  her  sudden  agonized  awakenings, 
painted  across  the  darkness  in  dazzling  letters  of 
fire :  So  do  thou  also  learn  to  part  with  the  necessary 
and  beloved  friend  for  the  love  of  God. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

ALOUD  knock  at  the  door  awoke  her  shortly  be- 
fore eight  o'clock  on  the  following  morning. 
The  room  was  quite  dark,  for  the  solid  wooden  shut- 
ters were  fastened  closely  across  the  windows.  Syd- 
ney, barely  awake  and  fancying  it  was  still  night, 
leapt  out  of  bed,  and  switched  on  the  electric  light. 
Then  she  opened  the  door. 

The  old  landlady  was  standing  in  the  passage  out- 
side, proffering  a  telegram.  Sydney  accepted  the 
pale,  dust-colored  envelope  wherein  Italy  incloses 
those  messages  so  often  of  dread  and  disastrous  im- 
port. Her  name  and  address  were  typewritten  on 
a  tiny  slip  of  paper  fastening  down  the  flap  of  the 
envelope.  She  saw  that  it  had  been  forwarded  to 
her  from  the  Lido.  She  broke  it  open  and  glanced 
at  its  contents.  These  words  were  also  typewritten 
and  contained  one  or  two  mistakes  which  she  no- 
ticed in  spite  of  her  dismay. 

She  went  back  into  her  room  and  closed  the  door. 
Her  first  action  was  to  throw  open  the  shutters  and 
let  the  cool  morning  air  pour  into  the  room. 

It  was  a  fine  morning,  clear,  golden.  All  trace 
of  last  night's  rain  had  gone.  But  there  was  a  touch 
of  chill  in  the  air,  as  if  snow  had  fallen  on  the 
mountains. 

Sydney  stared,  white  and  haggard,  at  the  message. 
It  ran  as  follows:  You  had  better  come  home  at  once 
Moira  dangerously  III  Flood 

She  felt  as  if  her  brain  were  giving  way.  The 
words  echoed  through  her  mind  with  an  odd  mim- 
icry of  her  mother's  voice,  slightly  tinged  with  dis- 

300 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     301 

pleasure,  as  if  in  some  way  Moira's  illness  could  be 
attributed  to  something  Sydney  had  done.  "You  had 
better  come  home  at  once.  .  .  .  Moira  dangerously 
ill.  .  .  .  You  had  better  come  home  ...  at  once 
...  at  once.  .  .  ." 

Sydney  dressed  herself,  drank  a  cup  of  coffee  and 
then  began  to  pack  with  feverish  haste.  And  as  she 
packed,  plans  formed  themselves  nebulously  in  her 
brain.  She  must  start  at  once,  without  any  delay. 
She  wasn't  really  afraid  that  Moira  was  going  to 
die,  she  had  always  had  such  splendid  health.  It 
must  be  serious,  though,  for  Lady  Flood  to  send  for 
her  in  this  abrupt  fashion,  burying  the  hatchet  or 
rather  behaving  as  if  there  were  no  hatchet  to  be 
buried.  She  would  catch  the  first  train  to  Milan, 
and  go  on  from  there  that  night  or  very  early  to- 
morrow morning.  She  had  some  money — enough 
for  her  journey.  She  would  leave  her  large  boxes 
in  Venice  and  travel  only  with  a  bag  and  suitcase. 
Just  a  change  of  clothing — a  thick  coat.  ...  It 
would  be  cold  now  crossing  the  Channel. 

She  opened  her  portfolio  and  took  out  some  half- 
dozen  sketches.  Daxtfn  on  the  Lagoon,  she  had 
done  that  soon  after  she  first  came,  and  Pinelli  had 
praised  it.  He  had  liked  its  delicate  quality,  the 
pearly  atmosphere  touched  with  gold.  Here  was 
another.  Blue  sea  and  a  couple  of  sails,  one  golden, 
the  other  moon-white,  a  stretch  of  golden  sand.  She 
had  done  that  at  the  Lido  on  one  of  those  long  lonely 
days  when  they  had  all  three  left  her  to  her  own 
devices.  Days  when  she  hadn't  dreamed  that  Clive 
could  ever  love  her.  For  the  first  time  she  let  her 
thoughts  rest  upon  Clive.  She  had  been  trying  to 
keep  that  thought,  so  to  speak,  at  a  distance,  but  now 
it  made  its  tumultuous  entrance  into  her  brain  and 
would  not  be  gainsaid.  .  .  .  She  went  on  quietly 
sorting  the  drawings  until  she  had  singled  out  about 


302     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

a  dozen  to  take  with  her.  The  portrait  of  Roma 
was  too  large,  it  must  be  left  behind.  She  would 
pack  it  up  in  her  trunk.  For  of  course  she  was  com- 
ing back  .  .  .  directly  Moira  was  out  of  danger.  .  .  . 

She  would  try  and  sell  some  of  this  stuff  in  Lon- 
don. It  was  odd  their  sending  for  her  just  now,  when 
her  own  life  had  reached  such  a  critical  juncture. 
And  she  didn't  in  the  least  want  to  go.  The  sum- 
mons could  not  have  come  at  a  more  inopportune 
time,  as  far  as  she  was  concerned.  There  was  some- 
thing terrible  in  the  prospect  of  this  abrupt  depar- 
ture. Of  course  she  was  sorry  about  Moira — very 
sorry  indeed.  But  Lady  Flood  and  Wanley  would 
both  perhaps  be  prone  to  exaggerate  any  grave 
symptoms,  they  loved  Moira  so  much.  Still,  it  was 
necessary  to  go,  and  she  was  almost  thankful  at  hav- 
ing something  definite  to  do — something  that  must 
be  done.  And  she  must  write  to  Roma,  to  tell  her 
why  she  had  gone  so  suddenly  without  taking  leave 
of  her.  Roma  would  explain  to  Clive.  She  mustn't 
write  to  Clive.  Roma  would  have  her  suspicions, 
if  she  chanced  upon  the  letter.  .  .  . 

She  went  on  with  the  work  of  packing  and  sort- 
ing. Fortunately  she  had  thrown  away  all  unneces- 
sary accumulations  before  she  left  the  Lido,  so  her 
present  task  was  simplified.  When  it  was  finished, 
she  went  out  to  the  Piazza  to  find  out  about  the 
trains.  Yes,  there  was  one  to  Milan  during  the 
course  of  the  day,  but  the  man  reminded  her  that 
it  would  be  necessary  to  obtain  visas  for  her  pass- 
port. And  the  passport-offices  were  not  open  yet — 
would  not  be  open  till  nearer  midday.  There  were 
formalities,  it  would  take  a  little  time.  And  she 
must  go  to  the  Italian  questura.  It  was  with  a 
heavy  heart  that  Sydney  plodded  round  Venice  to 
discharge  these  duties.  By  the  time  they  were  all 
accomplished,  it  was  too  late  to  catch  the  train;  she 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     303 

must  wait  now  until  the  night  one.  But  the  reprieve 
was  almost  welcome.  After  all,  she  would  have 
time  to  go  to  the  Lido  and  say  good-by  to  the  Coch- 
ranes.  There  would  be  nothing  extraordinary  in 
doing  this;  in  fact,  it  would  be  perhaps  a  lack  of 
courtesy  on  her  part  not  to  go.  And  thus  she  would 
see  Clive  again.  She  would  not  have  to  make  that 
long  journey  home,  eating  her  heart  out  with  sus- 
pense. .  .  . 

She  went  up  to  her  room  to  make  the  final  prepa- 
rations. Her  things  were  all  stowed  away  in  the 
trunk;  her  bag  and  suitcase  were  ready  for  the  jour- 
ney. She  read  her  mother's  telegram  over  two  or 
three  times,  trying  to  realize  that  it  was  not  all  part 
of  a  bad  dream.  After  all,  Moira  must  be  very 
ill  indeed  to  induce  them  to  send  for  her  like  that. 
Moira  had  perhaps  asked  for  her.  They  had  never 
been  very  intimate  as  sisters,  but  they  had  been 
friendly  to  each  other.  Perhaps  the  baby  had  come 
into  the  world  before  its  time.  Still  she  had  had  a 
few  months  of  great  happiness.  If  she  died,  it 
would  be  terrible  for  Wanley,  terrible  too  for  Lady 
Flood.  .  .  .  Were  not  people  ever  allowed  to  be 
happy?  So  many  things  came  to  spoil  happiness. 
Separation,  estrangement,  death.  .  .  .  Hard,  bitter 
things  that  crucified  body  and  soul.  .  .  . 

As  she  moved  to  and  fro,  Sydney  caught  sight 
of  herself  in  the  mirror.  How  strange  she  looked 
— almost  old.  A  white  haggard  face,  the  eyes 
sunken,  the  lips  a  little  swollen,  the  short  hair  luster- 
less.  Those  wakeful  nights  had  told  upon  her.  She 
had  suffered  bitterly  during  those  five  days  that  had 
elapsed  since  she  left  the  Lido. 

It  was  after  four  o'clock  when  she  went  down  to 
the  Riva  to  wait  for  the  steamer.  When  it  came, 
it  was  full  to  overflowing.  Workingmen  and 
women,  and  grubby  sunburnt  children  seemed  to  fill 


3o4     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

it  from  helm  to  prow.  Sydney  had  to  force  her 
way  on  board.  There  was  hardly  standing-room, 
and  all  around  her  men  were  smoking  the  cheap 
strong  tobacco  of  Italy,  that  affected  her  with  a  sense 
of  nausea. 

Then  the  steamer  moved,  and  the  contact  with 
the  fresh  pure  air  pouring  in  from  mountains  and 
sea  revived  her.  She  was  able  to  register  impres- 
sions, the  beauty  of  Venice  at  that  hour,  the  wooded 
shores  of  the  Lido  drawing  closer  to  them  every 
moment,  the  fresh  blue  or  water  and  sky.  She 
seemed  to  see  it  all  with  a  poignant  sense  of  apprecia- 
tion, aware  that  for  a  time,  at  least,  she  was  going 
to  leave  it.  At  the  back  of  her  thoughts  was  the 
golden  hope  that  she  would  very  soon  see  Clive.  She 
would  hear  from  his  lips  some  perfectly  plausible 
reason  for  his  apparent  neglect.  It  had  never  meant 
— could  never  mean — that  he  had  ceased  abruptly 
to  love  her.  When  she  left  Venice  that  night,  it 
would  be  with  the  knowledge  that  his  love  was  still 
unchangeably  hers.  She  scarcely  thought  of  Moira 
now.  Moira  had  so  little  place  in  this  new  pas- 
sionate life  of  hers. 

Everything  was  outlined  in  that  fluid  golden  light 
with  a  curious  precision  of  detail.  The  lagoon  was 
a  wide,  shining,  silver  sea,  touched  with  gold,  that 
reflected  lovingly  every  cloud,  every  bright  sail, 
every  ponderous  black  gondola.  Over  there  to  the 
North  the  Alps  were  dimly  visible.  They  were 
shadow  mountains  without  substance,  the  only  things 
in  all  the  scene  that  were  formless  and  blurred. 

The  air  made  her  head  spin  a  little.  She  had  had, 
although  she  scarcely  realized  it,  far  too  little  food 
these  last  few  days.  Anxiety  had  taken  away  her 
appetite,  had  deprived  her  of  energy  either  to  pre- 
pare adequate  meals  for  herself  or  to  go  out  and 
get  them  in  a  restaurant.  After  the  orderly  luxury 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     305 

of  Roma's  house  the  change  had  been  too  great.  If 
she  had  been  happy  and  free  from  anxiety,  she  would 
have  enjoyed  that  slightly  Bohemian  existence,  not 
spending  too  much  one  day  lest  there  should  not 
be  enough  left  for  the  morrow.  But  the  lack  of 
nourishment,  together  with  the  sharp  suffering  and 
anxiety,  the  confusing  currents  that  were  swaying 
her,  the  conflict  that  was  being  fought  inexorably 
within  her  soul,  had  all  told  upon  her  physical 
health. 

Now  the  steamer  drew  near  to  the  landing  stage. 
People  were  thrusting  and  pushing  their  way  to- 
wards the  exit.  A  man  elbowed  his  way  roughly 
through  a  little  group  of  women,  pushing  them  aside 
in  his  selfish  haste.  Sydney  stood  watching  the  lit- 
tle scene  with  apparent  attention.  She  must  wait 
patiently  .  .  .  though  surely  none  of  these  people 
could  have  such  need  of  haste  as  she.  If  they  only 
knew  the  longing  that  was  in  her  heart,  would  they 
not  stand  aside  to  let  her  pass  off  first  of  all?  She 
leaned  against  the  railings;  her  head  whirled  a  lit- 
tle. Something  of  her  buoyant  hope  died  away, 
its  place  was  filled  by  an  abrupt  formless  melancholy. 
There  was  a  vital  reason  for  Clive's  non-appear- 
ance. .  .  .  He  hadn't  wanted  to  see  her.  He  didn't 
love  her  any  more.  Roma  had  persuaded  him — as 
she  had  done  on  former  occasions — that  he  was  not 
really  in  love.  She  ought  to  have  known.  Since 
her  departure,  Roma  had  resumed  her  unchallenge- 
able sway  over  him. 

Never  mind — she  would  pretend  that  she  had  only 
come  here  for  the  simple  purpose  of  saying  good-by 
to  the  Cochranes  before  her  departure  for  England, 
and  of  thanking  them  for  their  kindness  and  hospi- 
tality towards  her.  She  wouldn't  say  a  word  to 
Clive  .  .  .  about  anything.  She  guessed  with  a 
shrewd  discernment  how  greatly  he  would  dislike  the 


306     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

pitiful,  reproachful  attitude  some  women  would  hare 
adopted. 

Now  she  was  walking  rapidly  towards  the  villa, 
along  the  dusty  road  shaded  with  plane-trees.  Her 
heart  beat  a  little  faster  as  she  approached  the  high 
iron  gates.  To-day  they  seemed  almost  like  the 
entrance  to  a  prison  where  Clive  was  incarcerated. 
Her  courage  ebbed  a  little  as  she  rang  the  bell. 
Presently  she  heard  the  slight  click  that  signified  the 
gates  had  been  opened  from  within;  she  pushed  them 
back  and  went  up  the  little  path,  through  flowering 
shrubs,  to  the  house.  She  noticed  that  all  the  win- 
dows were  closely  veiled  by  the  protecting  wooden 
shutters;  they  gave  the  villa  a  blind,  unwelcoming 
aspect.  The  loggia  was  empty,  and  there  was  no 
one  in  the  garden.  The  whole  place  had  a  deserted 
look. 

A  girl  came  to  the  door  in  response  to  the  ring. 
She  was  a  recent  acquisition,  and  did  not  even  know 
Sydney  by  sight.  Her  Buona  sera,  signorina,  held 
something  of  surprise;  to  Sydney's  sensitive  ears  the 
surprise  seemed  to  be  not  wholly  unmixed  with  an- 
noyance. 

"Is  the  signora  at  home?  I  wish  to  see  her," 
said  Sydney,  in  a  flat  little  voice  that  was  almost 
deprecating. 

"The  signora  is  not  receiving  to-day.  She  is  in 
her  room." 

"Tell  her,  please,  that  I  am  here."  Sydney 
groped  in  her  bag  for  card  and  pencil.  She  scrib- 
bled a  few  lines.  "Say  that  I  should  like  to  see 
her." 

"But,  signorina,  the  orders  were  she  was  not  to 
be  disturbed.  She  was  up  all  night.  And  she 
sleeps.  .  .  ." 

"I  am  very  sorry.  If  she  could  only  see  me  for 
a  moment,  I  would  not  detain  her.  Give  that  card, 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     307 

please,  to  her  maid  and  tell  her  to  take  it  to  her." 
Unconsciously  her  voice  assumed  an  authoritative 
ring  that  was  not,  she  now  perceived,  without  its 
effect. 

The  girl  took  the  card  and  moved  slowly  away. 
Sydney  sat  down  on  a  chair  in  the  hall.  She  could 
hear  her  going  upstairs  with  reluctant  feet. 

She  wished  that  Clive  would  come  down.  Per- 
haps the  maid  would  go  to  him  instead  of  to  Roma, 
and  ask  him  to  see  Sydney  and  hear  her  message. 

The  house  was  mysteriously  still,  for  it  was  long 
past  the  hour  dedicated  to  the  tyrannical  siesta.  Al- 
though it  was  now  nearly  five  o'clock,  no  one  seemed 
to  be  stirring.  She  wished  she  had  remembered  to 
ask  how  Moreton  was.  Perhaps  he  was  very  much 
worse,  since  Roma  had  been  up  all  night  and  was 
now  sleeping  so  late.  Who  could  blame  her  for 
taking  that  well-earned  repose  ?  She  was  so  anxious 
about  Moreton  that  probably  she  would  show  little 
interest  in  or  sympathy  for  the  bad  news  Sydney  had 
received  about  Moira. 

Even  in  those  few  days  of  her  absence  the  house 
seemed  to  Sydney  utterly  changed,  and  in  its  new 
aspect  it  was  even  a  trifle  sinister.  It  was  as  if  an 
immense  desolation  had  taken  possession  of  it.  The 
villa  had  always  been  such  a  bright  cheerful  place, 
friendly,  even  homely,  and  full  of  life  and  laughter, 
the  gay  laughter  of  Roma  and  Clive.  Sydney  could 
visualize  Roma  moving  about  the  garden  in  her 
white  dress  that  emphasized  the  sinuous  grace  of  her 
figure.  And  she  could  picture  Clive,  but  always  less 
perfectly,  walking  by  Roma's  side.  There  had  been, 
too,  always  the  murmur,  near  or  distant,  of  their 
voices.  Now  the  whole  house  was  wrapped  in  a 
deathly  stillness  that  was  only  broken  by  the  loud 
ticking  of  the  big  lacquer  clock  that  stood  in  the  hall. 
This  sound  presently  jarred  upon  Sydney's  nerves. 


308     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

At  last  after  a  seemingly  interminable  interval 
she  heard  approaching  footsteps.  The  girl  was 
returning,  perhaps  with  some  message  from 
Roma. 

Sydney  rose  and  went  very  softly  towards  the 
stairs.  At  the  back  of  her  confused  thoughts  there 
was  always  the  hidden  hope  that  it  might  be  Clive. 

Looking  up,  she  saw  the  figure  of  Ermelinda,  the 
maid. 

"The  signora  is  very  sorry  that  she  cannot  re- 
ceive you,"  she  informed  Sydney  in  her  broken 
French.  "She  is  in  bed — I  had  to  rouse  her  to  give 
her  your  message." 

Sydney  tried  to  believe  that  there  was  no  veiled 
hint  of  insolent  reproof  in  the  woman's  tone. 

She  was  desperate.  "Oh,  tell  her  that  I've  come 
to  say  good-by — I'm  leaving  for  England  to-night. 
My  sister  is  very  ill — they  have  telegraphed  for  me ! 
I  should  be  so  grateful  if  the  signora  would  only  see 
me  for  a  moment.  ..." 

"I  will  tell  her.  But  she  is  very  tired.  She  ought 
to  rest.  ..." 

There  was  something  of  compassion  in  the  wo- 
man's face  as  she  looked  at  Sydney  now.  She  had 
told  her  that  her  sister  was  very  ill,  and  the  warm 
Latin  heart  is  easily  touched  by  any  family  anxiety 
or  bereavement.  The  tie  of  blood  is  very  strong  in 
the  South.  Ermelinda  vanished  up  the  stairs.  Syd- 
ney sat  down  once  more  and  waited  in  sick,  trem- 
bling suspense.  She  did  not  stop  to  ask  herself 
where  Clive  was.  Her  whole  thoughts  were  concen- 
trated upon  seeing  Roma.  If  she  could  only  see  her 
all  other  things  would  be  quite  easy. 

Ermelinda  returned  almost  immediately. 

"The  signora  asks  me  to  say  that  she  is  very  sorry 
indeed  you  have  had  this  bad  news.  She  thinks  you 
are  quite  right  to  go  home  at  once,  and  she  hopes 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     309 

you  will  have  a  good  journey.     She  sends  you  molti 
saluti.  .  .  ." 

Sydney's  heart  sank.  She  stared  at  Ermelinda 
almost  uncomprehendingly.  Her  face  was  grayish 
white.  She  looked  as  if  she  were  going  to  faint. 
All  the  world  was  black,  and  whirling  about  her. 

"The  signorina  isn't  feeling  well?  The  signorina 
would  like  something — a  glass  of  wine  ?" 

"No — no !  I  don't  want  anything.  But  are  you 
quite  sure  that  the  signora  won't  see  me?" 

"Signorina,  she  is  in  bed.  We  had  to  wake  her 
to  give  your  message.  She  has  been  up  nearly  all 
night.  The  signore  had  a  bad  crisi" 

"Is  he  better  to-day?"  Sydney  asked,  with  an 
effort. 

"He  is  resting  now.  But  the  doctor  says  there  is 
no  improvement.  The  signorino  is  with  him." 

In  the  Cochranes'  household  Clive  was  always  the 
signorino — a  diminutive  title  invariably  bestowed 
upon  an  unmarried  man  in  Italy. 

Sydney  threw  pride  to  the  winds. 

"Couldn't  I — couldn't  I — see  the  signorino  for  a 
moment?"  she  said. 

"Oh,  no,  signorina — that  would  be  impossible. 
The  doctor  says  that  the  signore  must  on  no  account 
be  left.  And  the  nurse  has  not  yet  come.  There  is 
difficulty  in  finding  one.  The  signora  would  be  dis- 
pleased if  I  went  to  fetch  the  signorino  now." 

Sydney  leaned  back  in  her  chair.  She  was  con- 
scious of  loud  buzzing  sounds  in  her  ears  that  pre- 
vented her  from  thinking  coherently.  She  had  the 
feeling  that  her  world — her  bright,  beautiful,  little 
world,  full  of  love  and  hope — had  fallen  upon  sud- 
den and  irremediable  destruction.  Clive  was  there, 
upstairs,  a  few  yards  from  her,  and  she  was  not  to  be 
allowed  to  see  him;  there  was  no  one  with  enough 
courage  to  inform  him  that  she  was  there.  She  held 


3io 

her  hands  clasped  tightly  together  to  prevent  herself 
from  crying  out.  She  had  the  dreadful  feeling,  too, 
that  Ermelinda  was  watching  her,  wondering  per- 
haps at  her  imperfectly  controlled  emotion,  and  even 
guessing  what  was  passing  in  her  mind.  She  did  not 
notice  that  the  woman  had  suddenly  gone  away  and 
left  her  alone.  She  was  aroused  by  seeing  her  ap- 
proach with  a  little  tray  in  her  hands.  She  put  it 
on  a  table  near  Sydney,  who  saw  that  a  glass  of  wine 
and  some  biscuits  had  been  placed  there  for  her. 

"The  signorina  is  very  tired  and  commossa.  This 
news  of  the  illness  of  the  signorina's  sister  has  no 
doubt  upset  her.  A  glass  of  wine — to  move  the 
blood,  as  we  Italians  say."  She  held  the  glass  to 
Sydney's  white  lips. 

The  girl  drank  the  wine  and  tried  to  eat  a  bis- 
cuit, but  this  last  effort  proved  too  much  for  her. 
The  hard,  dry  substance  threatened  to  choke  her. 
She  put  it  back  upon  the  plate,  and  murmured  a 
word  of  thanks.  She  had  a  desperate  longing  to 
cry. 

At  last  she  rose.  "I  must  be  going.  It's  get- 
ting late.  ...  I  have  a  lot  to  do."  She  took  out 
a  second  card  and  scribbled  a  few  lines  upon  it  for 
Roma.  "Dear  Roma,  I  am  so  sorry  not  to  see  you 
before  I  leave  for  England.  I  hope  Moreton  will 
soon  be  better.  Write  to  me,  please,  to  London. 
Your  affectionate  Sydney."  She  held  out  the  card 
to  Ermelinda. 

"Thank  you,  signorina.  Do  you  find  yourself  bet- 
ter now?" 

"Yes,  thank  you.  I  was  only  a  little  tired.  I 
must  be  going." 

She  stumbled  towards  the  door.  Before  leaving 
the  house  she  gave  one  last  desperate  look  towards 
the  stairs,  as  if  her  very  prayers  must  induce  Clive 
to  descend  into  the  hall  at  that  moment.  But  in 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     311 

the  sinister  stillness  of  the  house  there  was  no  sound 
of  him. 

Ermelinda  accompanied  her  to  the  gate.  She 
glanced  round  the  garden  as  she  passed.  After  the 
recent  heavy  rains  it  was  looking  lustrously  green, 
and  the  broad,  smooth,  delicate  leaves  of  the  banana 
palms  were  brilliantly  emerald  and  almost  translu- 
cent in  their  verdant  beauty.  The  oleanders  were 
still  blossoming,  lifting  rose-colored  or  snowy-white 
sprays  against  the  dim  twilight  green  of  the  ilex- 
trees.  Between  the  boughs  of  the  pines  Sydney 
could  see  the  long  bright  line  of  the  Adriatic,  blue 
as  a  tropical  sea.  .  .  . 

Near  the  gate  she  noticed  some  salvias  that 
glowed  like  a  rim  of  ardent  unquenchable  fire.  A 
cluster  of  zinnias  contributed  a  variegated  blot  of 
color.  She  followed  with  her  eyes  the  dim  shaded 
path  that  led  to  the  gate  near  the  shore.  Down 
that  {>ath  Clive  had  first  drawn  her  close  to  him 
and  kissed  her.  She  could  picture  him  now,  bend- 
ing towards  her  with  an  infinite  tenderness  in  his 
eyes. 

"Good-by,  Ermelinda." 

"Good-by,  signorina.     Buon  inaggio!" 

The  heavy  iron  gates  clanged  behind  her  as  she 
went  out  into  the  white  dusty  road. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

LATER  in  the  evening  Sydney  started  for  the  sta- 
tion in  a  gondola,  floating  down  narrow  dark 
canals  with  the  pale  walls  of  palaces  rising  high  and 
frowning  on  each  side.  Past  a  campo  presided  over 
by  a  church,  under  a  white  bridge,  across  the  Grand 
Canal,  and  through  narrow  intricate  waterways  that 
seemed  so  familiar  to  the  gondolier,  so  incomprehen- 
sible to  herself.  Overhead  the  stars  had  come  out 
and  were  glittering  in  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky. 

At  last  she  found  herself  in  the  train.  By  great 
good  luck  she  had  been  able  to  secure  a  sleeping 
compartment.  She  lay  down  almost  at  once  and 
tried  to  go  to  sleep.  But  she  was  now  very  tired, 
so  tired  indeed  that  it  made  her  feel  almost  as  if 
she  were  very  ill.  The  fatigue  robbed  her  of  all 
strength.  She  had  fits  of  dizziness,  of  faintness.  If 
she  could  only  sleep  1  ... 

All  this  time  she  had  not  shed  a  single  tear.  Her 
eyes  were  quite  hard  and  dry,  and  she  was  not  con- 
scious of  feeling  any  particular  sensation  of  grief 
or  loss.  Her  mind  had  been  so  concentrated  even 
subconsciously  upon  the  details  of  this  journey  which 
had  to  be  accomplished  at  all  costs,  that  she  had  not 
dared  to  occupy  her  thoughts  too  much  with  that 
terrible  little  scene  enacted  at  the  Lido. 

The  train  moved  off.  As  it  slowly  left  the  sta- 
tion, she  went  to  the  window  to  look  back  at  Venice. 
She  saw  the  lights  of  the  beautiful  sea-city  shining 
steadily  in  straight  lines,  in  clusters,  in  groups.  Mov- 
ing lights  upon  the  lagoon  indicating  the  passing  of 
some  vessel.  Lights  that  lifted  themselves  above 

312 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     313 

the  rest,  shining  beaconlike  from  some  tower.  Her 
thoughts  quickly  traveled  back  to  that  night  of  her 
arrival,  to  the  light  that  had  shone  out  suddenly 
upon  the  lagoon,  burning  before  the  shrine  of  the 
Madonna.  Perhaps  it  was  shining  there  now,  to 
instill  hope  into  the  heart  of  some  lonely  traveler. 
She  thought  of  it  now  as  a  friendly  light  that  had 
had  a  kindly  influence  upon  her  own  life. 

When  the  train  had  traveled  over  the  long 
isthmus-like  bridge  that  joins  Venice  to  the  main- 
land, Sydney  lay  down  again  and  closed  her  eyes. 
But  she  could  not  sleep,  and  her  feverish  brain  be- 
gan to  reconstruct  rapid  and  shifting  pictures  from 
the  past.  She  thought  of  her  nights  in  the  hospital, 
when  she  had  sometimes  been  left  quite  alone,  per- 
haps for  hours,  with  a  dying  patient  muttering  inco- 
herently at  her  side.  Outside,  on  some  of  those 
nights,  there  had  been  the  wonderful  blue  swords  of 
the  searchlights  stabbing  the  sky  to  reveal,  perhaps, 
the  presence  of  a  Zeppelin  hovering  like  a  dreadful 
bird  of  prey  over  the  quiet  English  landscape.  Then 
her  return  home  after  the  Armistice;  Moira's  wed- 
ding, the  young  lovely  face  under  the  wreath  of 
white  heather  and  orange-blossom.  Such  a  young, 
young  bride.  But  Moira  was  very  ill — dying  per- 
haps— and  she  was  on  her  way  back  to  her.  There 
was  no  time  to  be  lost.  Even  now  she  might  be  too 
late.  .  .  .  Then  her  interview  with  Duncan  Turner. 
Her  own  half  engagement  to  him  speedily  brought 
to  naught  by  the  sudden  appearance  of  Roma  in 
her  life.  If  she  had  stayed  at  home  and  married 
Duncan,  she  would  surely  never  have  known  such 
mad  moments  as  these.  .  .  .  The  visit  of  the  Coch- 
ranes,  she  could  see  them  now,  sitting  in  her  moth- 
er's drawing-room,  following  her  up  to  the  studio. 
But  all  these  people  were  like  shadowy  silhouettes 
thrown  momentarily  upon  a  screen,  and  then  as 


314     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

suddenly  vanishing.  Even  her  mother  with  her  ar- 
rogant, dominating  personality  that  made  such 
heavy  demands  upon  one's  time  and  strength,  was 
only  a  shadow  now.  .  .  .  Memory  produced  an  odd 
echo  of  Lady  Flood's  voice,  "My  little  girl  Syd- 
ney really  paints  quite  prettily.  .  .  .  Oh,  the  merest 
amateur,  of  course!"  It  was  odd  how  these  re- 
membered words  still  possessed  their  old  power  to 
irritate  her.  .  .  .  Now  she  was  stumbling  past 
Wright  in  the  narrow  hall  in  that  last  ignominious 
going-away  of  hers,  so  different  from  the  triumphant 
departure  of  Moira  just  a  few  weeks  earlier.  There 
was  a  silver  salver  lying  on  the  hall-table  with  some 
notes  and  circulars  upon  it.  Above,  hung  some  en- 
gravings which  she  could  remember  from  childhood. 
"Affection's  First  Offering,"  the  "Laughing  Boys," 
the  "Accession  of  Queen  Victoria"  .  .  .  such  an 
odd  assemblage.  They  were  all  a  little  spotted  and 
yellow  with  damp.  .  .  .  She  wondered  what  had 
made  her  think  of  them  now.  Poker-patience  .  .  . 
those  interminable  games  with  her  mother,  watch- 
fully alert.  .  .  .  Her  own  inability  to  produce  a 
"straight  flush"  .  .  .  she  could  hardly  remember 
now  what  it  meant.  And  again  Lady  Flood's  voice, 
astonished,  emphatic:  "I  can't  think  what  induced 
you  to  throw  away  that  heart.  .  .  ."  What  heart? 
Did  she  mean  Duncan's?  No  .  .  .  she  was  only 
talking  about  the  cards.  Oh,  Sydney  felt  now,  she 
had  never  lived  in  those  days;  she  had  been  a  mere 
mechanical  puppet  wound  up  to  do  and  say  certain 
things  at  given  appropriate  moments.  Life  was 
when  you  loved  and  suffered.  Life  was — CHve. 
She  clenched  her  hands  and  shut  her  eyes.  She  was 
back  now  in  the  church  on  the  little  cemetery  island 
of  San  Michele.  Outside,  was  the  gondola  with  its 
black  and  silver  trappings  that  had  brought  the  dead 
solemnly,  with  such  stately  royal  progress,  across  the 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     315 

lagoon.  The  voices  of  the  hidden  friars  were 
chanting  the  Dies  Iras.  She  could  hear  the  rise  and 
fall  of  that  solemn  singing  keeping  time  and  rhythm 
to  the  grinding  of  the  wheels  as  the  train  sped  on- 
ward towards  Padua.  .  .  .  And  Clive  was  standing 
there  looking  at  the  smiling  Bernini  statues.  Such 
a  surprise — she  had  never  expected  to  find  him  there, 
of  all  places  in  the  world.  That  was  before  any  word 
of  love  had  passed  between  them,  yet  even  then  he 
had  seemed  boyishly  eager  that  they  should  spend 
the  rest  of  the  day  together. 

Life  was  .  .  .  Clive.  Not  the  invisible  things  of 
the  soul,  its  obscure  strivings  and  mystical  aspira- 
tions, its  eager  endurance  of  pain  and  loss,  its  de- 
sire for  suffering.  Life  was  human  love,  warm,  pro- 
tective, enduring.  .  .  . 

Sydney  fell  asleep. 

An  afternoon  of  beautiful  and  mild  September 
weather  greeted  her  arrival  in  London.  She  had 
been  obliged  to  sleep  one  night  in  Paris,  but  had 
left  as  early  as  possible  in  the  morning,  having  pre- 
viously telegraphed  to  her  mother  to  tell  her  the 
hour  of  her  train.  Not  that  she  expected  any  one 
to  meet  her.  They  would  all  be  far  too  anxious 
about  Moira  to  think  of  that. 

Summer  still  lingered.  The  trees  in  the  great 
London  squares  were  as  yet  hardly  touched  with 
decay.  These  oases  of  verdure-  gave,  Sydney 
thought,  a  charming  character  to  London;  they  were 
so  frequent,  with  their  wonderfully  kept  green 
lawns,  their  flower-beds,  their  beautiful  tall  trees, 
and  they  seemed  to  appear  so  unexpectedly  amid 
the  wilderness  of  streets  and  pavements  to  which 
they  made  such  a  welcome  interlude.  Returning 
after  a  first  long  absence  abroad,  those  green  in- 
closed spaces  struck  her  as  at  once  beautiful  and 


3i6     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

characteristic.  Indeed,  they  are  as  characteristic  of 
London  as  the  innumerable  fountains,  springing  up 
all  over  the  city,  are  of  Rome. 

Although  many  people  were  still  away,  the  stir 
and  traffic  seemed  hardly  less  than  in  the  season. 
The  streets  were  thronged  and  the  roads  crowded. 
After  the  quiet  of  Venice  and  the  absence  of  all 
carriages,  carts,  horses  or  motors,  the  sight  of 
so  much  congested  traffic  made  Sydney  feel 
actually  nervous.  She  was  very  tired  from  her 
long  journey,  and  her  face  looked  drawn  and 
pale  under  the  little,  close-fitting  black  hat  she 
wore. 

Now  the  taxi  drew  up  before  her  mother's  door. 
Lady  Flood's  house  looked  as  it  always  did — that 
is,  as  if  it  had  been  recently  swept  and  garnished 
both  without  and  within.  The  fresh  cream  paint 
on  its  walls  gave  to  all  the  neighboring  houses  a 
dingy  and  smudged  aspect.  The  white  curtains, 
elaborate  with  filet  lace,  were  spotlessly  clean,  and 
looked  as  if  they  had  been  put  up  that  morning. 
The  door  was  newly  painted  a  bright  green,  and  its 
brass  knocker  shone  in  the  sun.  Pink  geraniums 
and  white  daisies  bloomed  in  the  green-tiled  window- 
boxes. 

Sydney  glanced  at  the  windows  anxiously.  But 
the  bright  little  house  gave  no  evidence  of  disaster. 
A  man  who  was  pacing  up  and  down  the  pavement 
turned  as  the  taxi  stopped,  and  came  towards  her. 
It  was  Duncan  Turner. 

"I  knew  I  should  miss  you  at  the  station,"  he 
said,  in  as  ordinary  a  tone  as  if  he  had  seen  her 
only  the  day  before,  "so  I  preferred  to  wait  here. 
I  am  glad  you  have  got  home  all  right.  It  was  a 
long  journey  for  you  to  take  alone." 

He  had  helped  Sydney  from  the  taxi  as  he  spoke. 
Then  he  rang  the  bell.  In  a  few  minutes  she  and 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     317 

Duncan  and  her  luggage  were  safely  inside  the  house. 
Wright  had  admitted  them  with  a  decorous  expres- 
sion of  subdued  welcome. 

"Then  Moira's  better?"  she  said. 

"Yes.  She's  out  of  danger,  thank  God,"  said 
Duncan. 

"Is  her  ladyship  in?"  said  Sydney,  turning  to 
Wright. 

"No,  miss;  she  told  me  to  say  that  she'd  be  in  to 
dinner  and  she  hoped  you  would  take  a  rest.  I  was 
to  bring  up  tea  directly  you  came." 

"Yes,  1  should  like  it  very  soon,"  said  Sydney. 
She  moved  towards  the  staircase.  Duncan  hesi- 
tated. 

"Won't  you  come  up  and  have  tea  with  me?"  she 
said. 

She  felt  as  if  she  did  not  want  to  be  left  alone. 
Duncan  was  here  and  he  might  just  as  well  stay 
with  her.  He  could  tell  her  so  much  that  she  wanted 
ardently  to  know.  It  was  a  comfort  to  have  him 
there,  a  friendly  presence  to  welcome  her.  It 
would  have  been  terrible  to  arrive  and  find  no  one 
but  Wright.  .  .  . 

Sydney  mounted  the  narrow  stairs,  newly  carpeted 
in  a  shade  of  dark  bright  blue.  The  house  seemed 
to  her  very  small,  quite  a  miniature  abode,  indeed, 
after  the  immense,  lofty,  spacious  rooms  of  Venice, 
but  it  also  struck  her  as  perfectly  appointed  and  fin- 
ished, in  a  trim  neat  English  way. 

She  sat  down  opposite  to  Duncan  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  it  seemed  to  both  of  them  as  if  she  had 
never  been  away. 

"Now  tell  me  about  Moira,  please.  You  see,  I 
know  nothing  at  all." 

"Well,  she  was  taken  ill  very  suddenly  just  after 
her  return  from  Scotland.  Fortunately  they  were 
in  London.  She  nearly  died,  and  of  course  she's 


3i8     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

lost  her  baby.  But  since  yesterday  the  doctors  say 
she's  been  out  of  danger." 

"And  you've  seen  Mamma?" 

"Yes — I've  been  round  most  evenings  lately,  ex- 
cept when  she  was  staying  with  Moira.  I  had  an 
idea  she  liked  me  to  be  here." 

"I'm  sure  she  did.  And  she  told  you  that  she'd 
sent  for  me?" 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  suggested  it.  It 
didn't  seem  fair  to  leave  you  in  ignorance.  I  felt 
that  you  ought  at  least  to  have  the  chance  of  com- 
ing back." 

"It  was  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Sydney  absently. 
"I  wondered  at  their  sending  for  me."  She  was 
thinking  to  herself :  Was  it  very  kind  of  Duncan  or 
very  cruel?  If  she  had  only  stayed  a  few  days 
longer  she  might  have  seen  Clive  again.  It  was 
through  Duncan's  agency  that  the  chapter  had  been 
abruptly,  almost  cruelly,  closed. 

"Your  mother  told  me  that  she'd  had  a  telegram 
from  you  from  Paris.  I  offered  to  go  and  meet  you, 
but  one  so  often  misses  in  the  crowd.  I  thought  it 
would  be  safer  to  stay  about  here." 

"Had  you  been  waiting  very  long,  Duncan?"  asked 
Sydney,  curiously. 

"About  an  hour,  I  think.  Your  train  must  have 
been  late.  I  was  beginning  to  give  you  up — to  wish 
I'd  come  to  the  station,  and  helped  you  with  your 
luggage." 

"Oh,  I'd  only  hand  things  with  me,"  said  Syd- 
ney, "I  left  my  heavy  luggage  in  Venice.  You  see, 
I  shall  be  going  back  there  as  soon  as  Moira's  bet- 
ter." 

"Oh,  you're  not  tired  of  it,  then?" 

"Tired  of  it?     Oh,  no!" 

He  glanced  at  her  sharply,  scrutinizingly. 

"You  don't  look  as  if  it  had  agreed  with  you  very 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     319 

well,"  he  observed.     "Why,  you've  hardly  any  flesh 
on  your  bones!     And  your  eyes  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  I'm  only  rather  tired  by  the  journey." 

"I  can't  believe  that  a  two  days'  journey  can  have 
reduced  you  to  this  condition !" 

"I  shall  be  all  right  to-morrow,"  said  Sydney 
confidently. 

Moira  was  better,  and  soon,  very  soon,  she  would 
be  able  to  return  to  Venice. 

Duncan  still  looked  dissatisfied. 

"So  you  really  enjoyed  it?  And  was  that  woman 
kind  to  you  ?" 

"That  woman?  .  .  ." 

"Your  dear,  wonderful  Mrs.  Cochrane!"  His 
eyes  were  mocking,  but  she  detected  a  deadly  seri- 
ousness in  his  voice.  So  he  was  blaming  Roma  for 
this  change  in  her.  .  .  . 

"She  was — -kind,"  said  Sydney  reluctantly,  "but  I 
wasn't  with  them  any  more,  Duncan.  I  had  taken 
rooms  in  Venice — I  was  working  alone  there." 

"You  were  working  alone  in  Venice?" 

"Yes,  why  not?" 

"I  thought  the  idea  was,  you  were  to  live  with 
the  Cochranes." 

"Well,  I  did  live  with  them  for  five  months.  But 
various  things  happened,  and  I  came  away.  Mr. 
Cochrane  was  ill  for  one  thing — they  wanted  my 
room  for  a  nurse.  But  they  didn't  ask  me  to  go — 
it  was  my  own  doing.  Roma  wasn't  quite  pleased 
at  first.  .  .  ." 

Duncan  only  said: 

"I'm  glad  they  didn't  ask  you  to  go." 

Yet,  if  it  had  all  been  a  failure,  if  Mrs.  Cochrane 
had  shown  herself  as  capricious  as  he  had  believed 
her  to  be,  why  was  Sydney  so  anxious  to  return? 
There  must  be  some  vital  attraction.  She  had 
brought  with  her  as  little  as  possible,  and  had  left 


320     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

the    remainder    behind.      He    was    puzzled.  ... 

"So  you  were  happy?     Really  happy?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  I  was  glad  to  have  so  much  time  for  work- 
ing, for  study." 

She  spoke  quite  simply,  and  yet  he  felt  keenly 
that  she  was  hiding  something  of  importance  from 
him.  And  it  was  something  that  had  hurt  her,  had 
caused  her  sharp  suffering,  that  had  written 
its  traces  in  her  heavily  shadowed  eyes  and  upon 
her  thin  pale  cheeks.  Something  that  had 
taken  away  the  look  of  fresh  youth  that  had  been 
hers. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  aren't  you  going  to  tell  me 
anything  more  than  that?"  he  asked,  almost  piti- 
fully. 

Sydney  shrank  back  into  her  shell. 

"There  is  really  nothing  to  tell.  You  mustn't 
think  that  it's  been  a  failure.  .  .  ."  There  was  en- 
treaty in  her  eyes,  as  if  she  were  tacitly  imploring 
him  not  to  question  her  further.  Yet  it  is  certain 
that  but  for  her  promise  to  Clive,  she  would  have 
told  Duncan  the  whole  story,  sure  of  his  sympathy, 
his  understanding,  that  never  yet  had  failed  her. 

"I  did  not  want  you  to  go,"  he  said,  "and  I  don't 
want  you  to  return.  I  hoped  you'd  had  enough  of 
it  and  of  those  friends  of  yours.  I  confess  this  idea 
was  in  my  mind  when  I  ventured  to  press  upon  Lady 
Flood  the  appropriateness  of  the  present  moment 
for  a  reconciliation." 

"You  mustn't  think  I  didn't  want  a  reconciliation. 
I  had  been  thinking  of  it  very  seriously  for  some 
little  time,"  she  said. 

It  was  a  point,  indeed,  upon  which  Clive  had  been 
rather  insistent,  and  upon  which  she  frankly  con- 
fessed to  herself  that  she  had  not  always  seen  eye 
to  eye  with  him. 

"And  the  young  Apollo,  who  was  at  the  station 


321 

seeing  them  off  that  morning,  did  he  form  one  of 
the  party?"  inquired  Duncan. 

"Not  in  Venice.  But  he  came  with  us  when  we  all 
went  to  the  Lido." 

Sydney's  voice  was  very  carefully  controlled. 

"And  what  role  does  he  play  in  the  Cochrane 
menage?" 

"He  is  Moreton's  cousin.    He  lives  with  them." 

"Always?" 

"Yes.  You  see,  he  has  been  with  Moreton  since 
he  was  a  little  boy.  He's  like  a  son  to  him.  When 
Moreton's  ill,  he  never  leaves  him." 

Duncan  looked  at  her  with  an  expression  of  ironi- 
cal incredulity  upon  his  face. 

"How — filial!"  was  all  he  said.  "And  you  found 
him  an  agreeable  addition  to  the  little  group?" 

"I  saw  very  little  of  him.  But,  yes — he  was 
agreeable." 

"And  yet  you  preferred  to  leave  them?" 

"Yes.     I  thought  I'd  stayed  quite  long  enough." 

Duncan  was  silent.  He  wondered  what  had  hap- 
pened. But  he  saw  that  Sydney  did  not  intend  to 
tell  him.  She  was  on  her  guard.  Her  answers 
conveyed  little  that  was  not  quite  commonplace. 
Still,  she  had  suffered,  was  suffering  still.  Her  eyes 
gave  her  away  most  horribly. 

"And  you  liked  Venice?  It  gave  you  all  that 
you'd  hoped?" 

Her  answer  came  spontaneously,  eagerly.  "Much 
— much  more!" 

"That's  good,"  said  Duncan  cheerfully. 

"You  see,  it's  all  so  wonderful.  The  pictures — 
the  churches — the  place  itself!" 

Her  enthusiasm  touched  him.  "I've  never  been 
there.  But  I  think  you  make  me  want  to  go." 

"It's  so  beautiful,  it  hurts  you  to  leave  it." 

"But  you  did  quite  right  to  come.     I  should  have 


322     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

been  very  sorry  if  you'd  refused  the  olive-branch." 

"I  couldn't  have  refused  it,"  said  Sydney  quietly. 

Duncan  got  up  to  go. 

"Now  I  hope  you'll  take  your  mother's  advice  and 
go  and  have  a  good  rest  till  dinner  time.  You  look 
as  if  you  needed  it.  Good-by,  my  dear  Sydney." 

He  took  her  hand,  held  it,  looked  into  her  eyes. 
"It's  good  to  see  you  back,"  he  told  her. 

"Thank  you,"  said  Sydney.  His  kind  words,  his 
friendly  touch,  made  the  tears  come  into  her  eyes. 

But  Duncan  did  not  seem  to  notice  them.  He 
turned  abruptly  away  and  went  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

SYDNEY  went  up  to  her  room.  Everything  was 
in  readiness  for  her.  There  were  even  flowers 
on  the  dressing-table.  She  noticed  that  the  carpet 
was  a  new  one,  and  there  were  fresh  curtains  in  the 
windows.  The  place  seemed  to  smile  a  welcome 
upon  her.  They  were  glad,  perhaps,  that  she  had 
returned.  When  she  remembered  that  this  recon- 
ciliation was  Duncan's  doing,  she  felt  grateful  to 
him.  And  Moira  was  better.  She  would  soon  be 
able  to  return  to  Venice.  The  thought  cheered  her. 

So  Moira  was  out  of  danger,  but  she  had  lost 
her  baby.  That  would  be  a  terrible  grief  to  her. 
She  had  been  married  only  a  few  months,  and  the 
little  creature  must  have  come  prematurely  into  the 
world  without  life  or  consciousness.  She  knew 
enough  of  her  sister  to  realize  what  a  sorrow  this 
would  be  to  her.  But  Moira,  the  wife,  the  mother, 
was  a  stranger  to  Sydney.  She  had  moved  into  an- 
other sphere  where  the  shadow-like  figure  of  'her 
elder  sister  must  have  become  increasingly  shadowy. 
Sydney  tried  to  keep  her  thoughts  concentrated  upon 
Moira.  Otherwise  she  was  beginning  to  feel  that 
she  might  lose  her  sanity.  .  .  . 

She  took  off  her  dusty  traveling  clothes  and 
brushed  her  short  hair  free  from  the  grimy  soot, 
which  had  given  it  an  almost  grayish  aspect.  Then 
she  lay  down  on  the  bed  and  closed  her  eyes.  But 
she  could  not  sleep.  The  noise  of  the  train  was 
still  in  her  ears,  the  wheels  were  grinding  and  whir- 
ring in  her  head  like  an  angry,  insistent  machine. 
She  opened  her  eyes  and  gazed  about  the  room  as 

323 


324     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

if  to  convince  herself  that  she  was  really  back  at 
home.  Yes,  the  walls  had  been  repapered,  a  dull 
soft  green.  The  color  was  restful.  The  new  cur- 
tains were  also  green,  and  the  carpet  was  violet. 
The  effect  was  charming,  if  a  trifle  sober.  It  showed 
that  her  mother  must  have  thought  of  her,  planned 
for  her,  prepared  for  her  return,  and  even  perhaps 
hoped  for  it,  during  those  long  months  of  her  ab- 
sence. It  seemed  to  tell  her  that  she  was  no  longer 
in  disgrace.  But  if  she  revealed  her  intention  of 
going  back  to  Venice,  what  then?  Lady  Flood  had 
perhaps  assured  herself  complacently  that  when  her 
truant  daughter  returned  it  would  be  for  good. 

Lady  Flood — -Duncan — all  of  them — had  confi- 
dently depended  on  the  certainty  that  Roma  Coch- 
rane  would  be  "found  wanting."  And  so  she  had, 
but  in  a  way  that  Sydney  could  not  possibly  reveal 
to  them.  Roma  had  succeeded  in  separating  her 
from  Clive,  but  they  must  never  know  that.  She 
would  guard  her  secret  faithfully.  Yet,  when  she 
thought  of  the  bitter  necessity  of  having  to  do  so, 
she  felt  indescribably  abandoned.  It  would  have 
made  the  meeting  with  her  mother  so  much  easier 
if  she  could  have  announced  her  engagement  to  Clive 
Cochrane.  And  even  if  Lady  Flood  did  not  heartily 
approve  of  the  connection,  she  would  be  glad  to 
learn  that  her  daughter's  future  happiness  was  as- 
sured. When  she  knew  Clive,  she  would  be  certain 
to  like  him.  Sydney  pictured  herself  telling  her 
mother  of  her  happiness.  She  had  to  rouse  herself 
to  thrust  the  flattering  dream  from  her.  If  Clive, 
at  Roma's  instigation,  really  intended  to  throw  her 
over,  it  was  far  better  that  no  one  should  know 
of  the  engagement.  Her  abasement,  her  humilia- 
tion, would  thus  be  hidden  in  her  own  heart.  She 
would  not  have  to  endure  the  torture  of  revealing 
them. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     325 

But  she  could  not  even  now  lose  all  faith  in  Clive. 
There  must  be  some  explanation,  quite  simple  and 
plausible,  of  his  seeming  negligence.  He  would 
have  come  to  see  her  if  he  had  been  able  to.  She, 
better  than  any  one,  knew  how  bound  he  was,  how 
little  freedom  he  had.  She  knew  too,  almost  bet- 
ter than  he  did  himself,  how  completely  he  was  un- 
der Roma's  sway.  He  sometimes  seemed  hardly 
aware  of  fetters;  he  had  worn  them  so  long  they 
had  ceased  to  gall  him.  Roma  governed  him  with 
the  lightest  but  surest  touch. 

For  Sydney  dared  not  yet  even  to  herself  envisage 
the  possibility  of  dive's  ultimate  desertion  of  her. 
When  she  did  that,  she  felt  that  she  would  go  mad. 
She  loved  him  more  than  all  the  world.  All  the 
rest  were  shadows,  her  mother,  Moira,  Duncan. 
But  Clive  was  real,  and  he  loved  her.  .  .  .  Then 
Roma's  voice  teased  her  across  the  silence :  "I  some- 
times wonder  if  Clive  realizes  how  much  we — More- 
ton  and  I — count  for  in  his  life."  And  she  had 
added  that  if  a  fourth  person  ever  tried  to  intervene 
between  them  it  would  teach  him  the  exact  measure 
of  such  significance. 

When  Sydney  remembered  those  words  her  heart 
sank.  For  Roma  must  have  known  quite  well  when 
she  uttered  them  that  Sydney  herself  was  that  fourth 
person  who  had  so  rashly  intervened.  And  because 
of  her,  Clive's  eyes  were  to  be  opened.  Roma  would 
never  permit  him  to  marry  :her.  He  would  have  to 
marry  some  one  of  wealth  and  importance,  some  one 
of  whom  Moreton  approved. 

And  that  will?  It,  too,  had  perhaps  been  exe- 
cuted at  Roma's  instigation  to  raise  a  tangible 
permanent  barrier  between  Sydney  and  Clive.  .  .  . 

The  door  was  opened  and  Lady  Flood  came  sud- 
denly into  the  room.  As  she  entered,  she  fumbled 
for  the  switch  of  the  electric  light,  and  immediately 


326     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

the  room  was  filled  with  its  sharp  white  glare.  Syd- 
ney sprang  down  from  the  bed,  and  ran  towards  her 
mother  with  eager,  uplifted  face.  They  kissed  each 
other  in  silence.  Both  felt  deeply  moved.  There 
was  warmth  in  Lady  Flood's  embrace.  Sydney  had 
never  felt  so  assured  of  her  mother's  love  as  she  did 
at  that  moment. 

Lady  Flood's  face  bore  traces  of  sharp  and  bitter 
anxiety.  She  was  pale,  and  her  eyes  were  heavy  and 
sleepless-looking.  There  were  new  lines  about  her 
mouth  and  forehead.  She  was  a  woman  to  be  pitied, 
not  feared. 

She  was  the  first  to  speak. 

"Wright  told  me  you  had  arrived.  I  hope  you 
had  a  good  journey?" 

She  sat  down,  and  Sydney  sat  near  her,  scarcely 
believing  in  the  reality  of  the  little  scene. 

"Yes,  thank  you,  Mamma.  At  least,  it  was  very 
tiring — I  came  off  in  such  a  hurry.  And  I'm  so 
thankful  Moira's  better.  You  must  have  had  an 
awful  time."  She  put  out  her  hand  timidly  and 
touched  her  mother's. 

Theoretically  Lady  Flood  intensely  disliked  what 
she  was  wont  to  stigmatize  as  "being  pawed."  But 
the  slight  caress  coming  from  Sydney  pleased  her. 
It  evinced  affection,  perhaps  even  contrition  for  the 
past.  But  her  next  thoughts  were  less  kindly.  "She 
never  did  that  before,"  she  thought  to  herself,  "she 
must  have  learned  those  wheedling  ways  from  that 
woman!"  Roma  was  still  "that  woman"  to  Lady 
Flood — the  one  who  had  taken  her  daughter  away 
from  her. 

Like  Duncan,  when  she  looked  at  Sydney  she 
believed  that  the  venture  had  proved  a  failure.  The 
girl  was  wan  and  thin ;  she  had  lost  that  round,  soft, 
childish  look  which  had  ever  been  one  of  her  chief 
charms.  Well,  if  it  had  proved  a  failure  so  much 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     327 

the  better.  Sydney  would  no  doubt  have  learnt  her 
lesson,  would  realize  that  she  had  a  good  home  and 
ought  to  live  in  it. 

"Did  Duncan  meet  you?"  she  asked,  when  she 
had  recovered  from  the  little  shock  of  mingled  sur- 
prise and  annoyance  that  Sydney's  gesture  had 
evoked. 

"No — -he  was  waiting  outside  the  house.  He  was 
afraid  to  miss  me  at  the  station.  The  trains  are 
so  crowded  now." 

"I  hope  you  asked  him  to  come  in?" 

"Yes.     He  had  tea  with  me." 

"I  am  very  fond  of  Duncan,"  said  Lady  Flood, 
"he  has  been  of  great  service  to  me.  Since  Moira's 
illness  he  has  been  here  nearly  every  day.  It's  very 
good  of  him,  as  he's  a  busy  man." 

Sydney  said  quietly :  "Please  tell  me  about  Moira, 
Mamma.  When  shall  I  see  her?" 

"Oh,  you  will  have  to  wait  a  few  days,"  said  Lady 
Flood;  "she's  too  weak  to  see  any  one  yet.  We 
have  to  keep  her  from  anything  at  all  exciting  or 
disturbing." 

"But  I'm  her  sister,"  said  Sydney;  "surely,  I 
shan't  excite  or  disturb  her." 

Lady  Flood  cleared  her  throat.  "Yes,  you  are 
her  sister,  and  if  you  had  been  here  since  the  begin- 
ning of  her  illness  there's  no  doubt  you  would  be 
admitted  now.  But  you've  had  no  share  in  her  life 
since  she  married.  The  sight  of  you  might  upset 
her.  She  doesn't  even  know  that  you  are  back  in 
England." 

"Oh,  doesn't  she?"  said  Sydney,  a  little  crest- 
fallen. 

"I  don't  think  you  quite  realize  how  very  ill  she's 
been.  We  were  terribly  anxious."  Lady  Flood's 
eyes  filled  with  tears.  "Poor  Wanley  was  nearly 
off  his  head.  And  then  there  was  the  disappoint- 


328     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

ment.     Moira  had  looked  forward  so  passionately 
to  having  this  baby.     It  nearly  broke  her  heart." 

"Poor  Moira,"  said  Sydney.  Yes,  she  could  be- 
lieve Moira  had  longed  for  a  child,  young  as  she 
was.  She  had  always  loved  soft,  young,  helpless 
things;  she  was  naturally  a  maternal  woman. 

"I  should  like  to  have  seen  her,"  she  said  sud- 
denly. She  longed  then  to  tell  her  sister  how  sorry 
she  was  for  her. 

"Well,  you  shall  see  her  as  soon  as  she's  allowed 
to  have  any  visitors.  You  mustn't  blame  me,  Syd- 
ney, if  you  are  counted  as  a  visitor." 

"I  don't  think  I  am  blaming  any  one,"  said  Syd- 
ney slowly. 

"Directly  Moira's  better  I  shall  tell  her  that 
you've  come  back." 

She  looked  closely  and  critically  at  her  daughter. 
Yes,  she  was  changed,  without  counting  that  de- 
plorable physical  change  which  might  be  merely  the 
result  of  her  long  anxious  journey.  But  she  had 
more  assurance  than  when  she  went  away;  she 
looked  self-reliant,  capable,  less  timid.  There  was 
a  little  hardness  too,  expressed  in  the  almost  severe 
lines  of  her  mouth  when  she  was  not  speaking.  She 
had  the  appearance  of  some  one  who  had  traveled 
through  mysterious  phases  of  suffering. 

"You  were  happy  with  these  Cochrane  people?" 
Lady  Flood  asked  curiously. 

"Yes,  Mamma,"  said  Sydney,  "but  you  know  I 
had  left  them — I  was  living  alone  in  Venice  when 
you  sent  for  me.  Didn't  you  get  my  letter?" 

"No.  I  suppose  it  was  lost.  The  letters  have 
been  coming  very  irregularly.  I'm  thankful  I  did 
send  for  you,  under  these  circumstances.  Had  you 
lived  long  alone  in  this  way?" 

"No — only  a  few  days.  It  was  last  Thursday 
that  I  left  the  Lido,  where  we  spent  the  summer." 


329 

Only  a  few  days !  The  phrase  was  a  mockery.  To 
one  it  is  ten  years  of  years.  .  .  .  The  quotation  rose, 
unbidden  but  poignant,  to  her  mind. 

"I  shouldn't  have  liked  to  think  of  you  living 
alone  in  a  strange  place." 

"I  was  quite  happy.  I  was  working,"  said  Syd- 
ney, simply.  "Would  you  like  to  see  some  of  my 
things,  Mamma?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lady  Flood. 

Although  she  had  firmly  believed  that  Moreton 
Cochrane  had  exaggerated  the  significance  of  her 
daughter's  talent,  yet  insensibly  his  opinion  had  in- 
duced her  to  set  it  upon  a  higher  plane.  She  could 
always  quote  Moreton  when  necessary,  to  excuse  this 
desertion  of  home  and  friends  on  Sydney's  part. 
She  had  found,  too,  that  people  were  decidedly  im- 
pressed when  they  heard  Moreton's  verdict.  She 
had  liked  it  when  they  had  assured  her  pleasantly: 
"Your  little  girl  must  be  a  real  genius.  How  wise 
of  you  to  let  her  go  and  study  abroad!"  Such  re- 
marks as  those  had  made  Sydney's  absence  much 
easier  to  bear;  Lady  Flood  was  commended  for  her 
wisdom  in  permitting  it,  and  few  outside  her  own 
family  were  aware  of  the  girl's  headstrong  action 
that  secretly  had  caused  her  so  much  distress.  Dun- 
can's calm,  "Oh,  she'll  come  back,"  had  been  an- 
other reassuring  palliative.  And  he  was  right — 
Sydney  had  come  back,  shockingly  thin,  but  with  a 
new  tenderness  in  her  manner  that  was  more  at- 
tractive than  the  old  reserved  timidity. 

Sydney  was  busy  pulling  out  the  sketches  from 
her  portfolio.  They  were  not  many,  for  she  had 
left  everything  that  was  not  quite  finished  or  that 
did  not  satisfy  her,  behind.  But  these  would  surely 
give  Lady  Flood  some  idea  of  her  progress.  They 
might  not  be  good,  but  they  were  still  very  far 
removed  from  being  bad  or  indeed  from  being 


330     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

merely  indifferent  and  commonplace.  She  propped 
them  up  on  a  chair,  and  watched  with  some  curi- 
osity her  mother's  face. 

"I  like  that,"  said  Lady  Flood,  looking  at  the 
sketch  that  had  been  made  that  morning  when  Syd- 
ney had  been  in  such  bitter  suspense  and  had  risen 
almost  at  dawn  after  a  sleepless  night.  "I  like  that 
light  on  the  sky  and  water." 

When  she  had  looked  at  each  one  in  turn  she 
said: 

"But  surely  that  isn't  all?  You've  been  away 
such  ages." 

"Oh,  no,  but  I  didn't  bring  any  more  with  me. 
I  left  all  my  heavy  things  in  Venice.  There  was  a 
portrait  of  Roma  that  people  thought  wasn't  too 
bad.  But  Moreton  didn't  like  it." 

"What  a  pity  to  have  left  your  things  there,"  said 
Lady  Flood.  "However,  I  suppose  you  can  have 
them  sent." 

Sydney  was  silent.  It  hardly  seemed  the  right 
moment  to  speak  of  her  determination  to  return 
thither.  She  would  keep  her  own  counsel  until 
nearer  the  day. 

"I'm  glad  you  have — improved,"  said  Lady 
Flood.  "I  am  sure  you  must  have  worked  well. 
Mr.  Cochrane  was  encouraging?" 

"Not  always.  Still,  I  think  Pinelli,  with  whom 
I  worked,  was  satisfied." 

"Why  did  you  leave  the  Cochranes?"  inquired 
Lady  Flood. 

"I  thought  I  had  been  there  long  enough." 

"But  they  were  kind?" 

"Yes,  but  they  were  very  busy.  Socially  busy — 
I  felt  sometimes  as  if  I  must  be  rather  in  the  way. 
I'm  not  a  sociable  person,  as  you  know.  And  then 
Moreton  got  ill — they  were  very  busy  looking 
after  him." 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     331 

"They?"  Lady  Flood,  on  the  alert,  caught  at 
the  significant  plural. 

"Roma,  and  Moreton's  cousin,  Clive  Cochrane." 

"Clive  Cochrane !  You  didn't  mention  him  in 
any  of  your  letters." 

"He  lives  with  them.  But  he  only  came  when 
we  went  to  the  Lido.  He  is  like  a  son  to  More- 
ton." 

She  uttered  the  phrases  mechanically. 

"I  hope  they  did  not  show  you  that  you  were 
in  the  way?" 

"Oh,  no !  Roma  even  seemed  a  little  hurt  at 
my  going  at  first." 

Lady  Flood  rose.  She  stooped  and  kissed  her 
daughter. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  have  you  safely  at  home, 
my  dear." 

"Thank  you,  Mamma,"  said  Sydney. 

Lady  Flood  went  out  of  the  room. 

Sydney  was  almost  thankful  when  she  had  left 
her.  Those  simple  answers  to  her  questions  about 
Clive  seemed  to  have  satisfied  her  mother,  but  that 
she  should  have  betrayed  any  curiosity  on  the  sub- 
ject was  a  danger-signal.  If  she  knew  the  whole 
truth,  she  would  certainly  censure  his  conduct  as 
dishonorable,  and  perhaps  she  might  have  added 
something  to  the  effect  that  it  was  only  what  a  girl 
had  to  expect  if  she  left  a  safe  and  sheltered  home 
and  chose  to  live  by  herself  in  a  Bohemian,  uncon- 
ventional manner.  The  example  would  serve  to 
emphasize  the  rectitude  of  her  own  views  concern- 
ing the  independence  of  young  girls.  And  then  per- 
haps Lady  Flood  would  have  assured  her  of  what 
she  now  so  heart-breakingly  suspected,  that  Clive 
had  not  the  slightest  intention  of  marrying  her.  He 
had  been  "amusing  himself,"  philandering  with  the 
only  girl  at  hand  during  those  brilliant  summer 


332     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

days  at  the  Lido.  When  the  situation  threatened 
to  become  a  little  too  serious  and  to  endanger  his 
own  position  with  the  Cochranes,  he  had  urged  her 
to  leave.  And  when  she  did  leave,  he  had  yielded 
to  pressure — there  must  have  been  pressure — and 
quietly  dropped  her.  That  was  exactly  how  Lady 
Flood  would  read  and  interpret  the  little  story. 
When  Sydney's  thoughts  reached  this  bitter  point, 
she  instinctively  lifted  up  her  hands  to  shield  her 
burning  face.  She  felt  as  if  she  had  been  flung  into 
the  dust,  and  that  every  one  could  read  in  her  face 
the  story  of  that  humiliation.  Clive  would  be  thank- 
ful to  learn  that  she  had  left  Venice;  perhaps  he, 
too,  hoped  that  she  would  never  return.  And  if 
she  went  back,  would  it  only  be  to  find  doors  closed 
against  her — rthe  doors  that  had  once  seemed  to  her 
to  open  upon  the  very  Garden  of  Life?  .  .  . 

But  there  was  no  sign  of  any  struggle  in  her  pale, 
impassive  face  when  she  went  down  and  joined  her 
mother  at  dinner.  Except  that  Sydney  talked  more 
than  she  used  to,  the  meal  was  a  mere  renewal  of 
old  times.  Mrs.  Wright,  it  is  true,  had  received 
no  orders  to  prepare  the  "fatted  calf,"  but  she  had 
a  good  memory  for  "Miss  Sydney's"  favorite  dishes, 
and  they  duly  made  their  appearance  that  night. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

THOSE  first  days  at  home  left  no  impression  at 
all  on  Sydney's  mind.  True,  they  were  peo- 
pled with  the  two  figures  of  her  mother  and  Dun- 
can Turner,  who  still  came  to  the  house  every  day, 
and  frequently  dined  with  them.  It  was  a  relief  to 
have  him  there,  kindly,  ironical,  even  and  stable  in 
temperament.  He  always  seemed  to  be  quite  happy, 
alone  with  Lady  Flood  and  Sydney,  intimately,  and 
as  it  were  en  famille.  He  looked  at  Sydney's 
sketches,  admired  them,  and  secretly  longed  to  know 
the  true  history  of  her  life  during  those  months  of 
absence.  That  it  had  not  been  a  calm,  happy,  or 
eventless  history,  he  was  the  more  convinced  as  the 
days  passed  and  Sydney  had  presumably  recovered 
from  the  fatigue  of  her  journey.  She  looked  still 
wan  and  pale  and  suffering,  and  he  was  sure  that 
her  sufferings  had  not  been  physical.  But  she  was 
completely  reserved  on  the  subject;  she  let  drop 
no  hint  of  those  happenings.  He  wanted  desper- 
ately to  comfort  her,  but  she  neither  invited  nor 
required  sympathy. 

Some  days  passed  before  the  desired  permission 
to  go  and  see  Moira  was  given.  Then  Lady  Flood 
herself  took  Sydney  to  the  great  house  in  Park 
Lane,  as  if  to  regulate  the  visit.  She  had  to  wait 
in  a  little  room  all  swathed  in  brown  holland,  on 
the  landing,  while  her  mother  went  upstairs  to  see 
Moira.  She  sat  there,  feeling  weary  and  dispirited 
and  even  slightly  nervous.  She  wondered  what  she 
would  say  to  Moira.  She  had  a  nervous  dread  of 
finding  herself  quite  tongue-tied.  They  seemed  to 

333 


334     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

be  such  strangers  to  each  other.  Since  their  part- 
ing last  March,  their  paths  had  lain  so  wholly  apart. 

Presently  the  door  opened  and  a  nurse  came  into 
the  room.  She  was  quite  a  young  woman,  but  with 
a  very  decided  and  sophisticated  air,  as  if  life  held 
few  secrets  from  her;  nevertheless,  something  in  her 
face  conveyed  the  impression  that  all  her  experience 
had  been  gained  as  an  intelligent,  observant  onlookeor. 

"Will  you  please  come  upstairs,  Miss  Flood? 
Lady  Wanley  is  quite  ready  to  see  you." 

There  was  something  authoritative  in  her  man- 
ner. Sydney  imagined  that  she  was  capable  of  ex- 
acting implicit  obedience  from  her  patients.  She 
was  speculating  about  the  nurse  in  this  way  as  she 
followed  her  up  the  stairs.  She  seemed  to  her 
highly  trained,  efficient,  assured,  and  perhaps  a  lit- 
tle cold  and  heartless.  But  she  liked  her  and  felt 
that  if  she  were  ill  she  would  like  to  be  nursed  by 
her. 

Before  a  door  on  the  higher  landing,  the  nurse 
paused. 

"Of  course  I  needn't  warn  you  not  to  say  any- 
thing that's  remotely  likely  to  upset  your  sister. 
She's  extremely  weak — she  is  not  making  such  quick 
progress  as  we  hoped.  I'm  against  her  seeing  vis- 
itors at  all,  but  she  heard  you  were  at  home  and  she 
asked  to  see  you." 

Sydney  flushed  a  little. 

"I'm  accustomed  to  ill  people,"  she  said.  "I 
nursed  in  a  hospital  for  eighteen  months." 

The  nurse  smiled.  She  had  had  to  do  with  un- 
trained inefficient  nurses  during  the  War,  and  pos- 
sibly she  was  a  little  hard  on  them  and  their  well- 
meaning  efforts.  She  opened  the  door  and  let  Syd- 
ney pass  into  the  bedroom  where  Moira  lay. 

It  was  a  lofty,  luxurious  apartment,  very  faintly 
lit  with  concealed  and  shaded  lights.  The  floors 


335 

were  polished,  and  a  few  beautiful  pale  rugs  covered 
them.  The  curtains  were  of  dull  gold  damask,  and 
the  scant  furniture  was  antique  and  of  fine  quality. 
Moira's  bed  was  of  some  beautiful  inlaid  wood,  deco- 
rated with  fine  carving,  and  over  it  was  spread  a 
coverlet  of  exquisite  old  lace.  Sydney  approached 
the  bed  timidly,  half  in  fear,  and  as  she  came  near 
Moira  opened  her  eyes. 

There  flashed  through  Sydney's  mind  a  memory 
of  her  sister  as  she  had  last  seen  her  leaving  the 
house  with  Wanley  on  her  wedding-day,  surely  the 
most  beautiful  bride  that  was  ever  seen,  radiant  in 
her  great  happiness.  Now  she  lay  there  very  pale, 
very  still,  and  her  golden  hair  lay  in  confusion  on 
the  pillow  scarcely  restrained  by  a  blue  ribbon  that 
tied  it  back  from  her  face.  She  did  not  look  pretty 
or  even  young  any  more.  Sydney  felt  as  if  she  were 

fazing  upon  some  tragedy — the  tragedy  of  love, 
or  love  had  brought  her  to  this  tormenting  experi- 
ence in  which  soul  and  body  had  been  caught  up  in- 
exorably into  a  wheel  of  suffering.  Were  there  any 
answers — anywhere — to  questions  of  such  appalling 
difficulty?  And  then  quite  suddenly  the  picture  of 
the  young  martyr  St.  Placid  rose  up  before  Sydney's 
mind.  Love — the  extremity  of  love — had  brought 
the  martyr  also  to  that  pass  of  physical  suffering 
which  killed  him  and  admitted  him  forever  to  the 
company  of  saints  in  heaven.  Did  love  always  mean 
sacrifice?  .  .  .  But  these  thoughts  jostled  against 
each  other  with  amazing  rapidity,  and  she  had 
scarcely  stood  for  a  moment  by  her  sister's  side  be- 
fore she  bent  down  and  whispered,  "Dear  Moira. 
.  .  ."  She  put  her  hand  gently  on  her  sister's. 
Moira  looked  at  her  with  strange,  haggard  eyes. 
"I  lost  my  baby,"  said  Moira,  "and  I  wanted  to 
see  him  so.  More  than  anything  in  the  world.  I 
shouldn't  have  minded  anything  if  I  could  only  have 


336     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

had  him."  She  closed  her  eyes,  and  two  tears  slowly 
trickled  through  the  shut  eyelids. 

"Poor  Moira.  .  .  .  I'm  so  very,  very  sorry,"  said 
Sydney. 

She  dropped  a  light  kiss  on  Moira's  hand.  It 
was  very  cold,  very  unresponsive. 

Sydney  was  ready  to  sympathize  with  suffering — 
with  grief — -in  any  form.  But  the  thought  came 
to  her  then  with  bitterness,  that  in  her  own  suffering 
and  loss  she  could  ask  sympathy  of  no  one.  There 
was  an  element  of  shame  in  it  that  forbade  her  to 
speak  of  it.  Her  failure  to  keep  Clive!  .  .  .  Her 
last  mad  expedition  to  the  Lido  in  the  hope  of  see- 
ing him!  The  refusal  of  Roma  to  receive  her, 
which  had  been  like  a  blow  in  the  face.  .  .  . 

Moira  opened  her  eyes  again  suddenly  and  looked 
at  Sydney  restlessly. 

"Do  they  think  I'm  going  to  die?"  she  whispered, 
with  a  glance  towards  a  little  group  of  people  who 
were  standing  close  together  near  the  window. 

"Oh,  no,  Moira  darling  .  .  .  you're  getting  bet- 
ter. Soon  you  will  be  quite  strong." 

Yet,  when  Sydney  looked  at  her  sister,  her  heart 
sank  a  little.  She  looked  terribly  ill — far  more  ill 
than  she  had  even  expected  to  find  her.  She  had 
been  down  to  the  very  gates  of  death,  and  had  re- 
turned empty-handed.  .  .  . 

A  figure  detached  itself  from  the  group  near  the 
window  and  advanced  towards  Sydney.  It  was 
Lord  Wanley. 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  coming,  Sydney.  I  hope 
you'll  soon  come  and  see  Moira  again." 

Although  he  did  not  tell  her  to  go,  Sydney  rose, 
feeling  that  his  words  conveyed  a  hint  of  dismissal. 
She  kissed  Moira  again,  stroking  back  the  soft  hair 
from  her  brow,  and  then  followed  Wanley  out  of 
the  room. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     337 

In  the  dusk  of  the  landing  his  tall,  upright,  young 
figure  looked  imposing. 

"How  do  you  think  she's  looking?"  he  said. 

"I  find  her  very  much  changed.  I  suppose  that's 
only  natural." 

Sydney  tried  to  infuse  a  hopefulness,  which  she 
was  very  far  from  feeling,  into  her  tone. 

"She  is  fretting  so  about  losing  the  baby.  As  if 
that  mattered  as  long  as  she's  come  safely  through !" 
said  Wanley  with  energy. 

"She  always  loved  babies  and  young  things  like 
kittens  and  puppies,"  said  Sydney. 

"You  know,  she  isn't  quite  out  of  the  wood  yet," 
said  Lord  Wanley.  "This  is  the  tenth  day,  and 
she's  pretty  bad.  Her  pulse  isn't  good.  .  .  ."  He 
frowned  and  his  face  became  grave.  "If  she  only 
wouldn't  fret!" 

Sydney  was  silent. 

Wanley  took  her  hand. 

"I'm  most  awfully  glad  you've  come  back,"  he 
said,  with  a  kind  of  boyish  awkwardness.  "Your 
mother  has  missed  you  very  much,  and  I  wished 
you'd  been  with  her.  We  were  all  half  mad  with 
anxiety.  Moira  so  nearly  slipped  through  our  fin- 
gers." His  voice  broke  on  the  words,  and  Sydney 
saw  with  a  kind  of  horror  that  his  eyes  were  filled 
with  tears.  "I  want  to  ask  you  one  thing,  Sydney. 
Will  you  pray  for  her?  A  great  deal,  I  mean. 
Pray  that  she  may  get  better,  that  she  may  be  happy 
again.  I'd  give  all  the  world  to  see  her  look  happy 
as  she  once  did."  There  was  a  strong  but  repressed 
emotion  in  his  voice.  Sydney  had  never  liked  him 
better  than  she  did  at  that  moment. 

"I  promise  to  pray,"  she  said.  "I've  learnt  to 
pray — in  Venice." 

"In  Venice?"  he  repeated,  mystified. 

"Yes.     The  churches  there  are  such  homes  of 


338     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

prayer.  Think  of  all  the  generations  of  people 
who  have  passed  through  them,  praying.  ...  I 
used  to  like  to  think  of  that." 

There  was  a  faint  look  of  surprise  in  his  face, 
but  he  made  no  comment. 

"Don't  forget,"  he  said,   "and  good-night,  Syd- 
ney.   Come  again  soon." 

He  went  back  into  his  wife's  room,  and  Sydney 
slipped  downstairs  and  out  of  the  house. 

As  she  walked  along  Park  Lane,  she  had  the 
feeling  that  she  had  been  visiting  two  strangers. 
They  were  not  the  Moira  and  Wanley  of  a  few 
months  back,  radiant  in  their  perfect  happiness,  their 
mutual  love.  They  were  two  people  who  had  loved 
and  still  loved  each  other  passionately,  but  who  had 
been  caught  into  the  tragic  grip  of  life  and  com- 
pelled to  suffer  and  to  renounce.  She  cOuld  admire 
in  Wanley  his  complete  and  devoted  absorption  in 
Moira.  tie  loved  her  so  much  that  nothing  else 
in  the  world  counted  in  comparison  with  her.  It 
forced  Sydney  to  ask  herself  if  Clive  would  be  like 
that  if  sorrow  and  anxiety  came  to  him.  She  could 
picture  him  impatient,  longing  for  the  moment  when 
he  could  depart  tranquilly  to  scenes  that  laid  less 
claim  on  his  emotions,  to  a  more  peaceful  and  amus- 
ing environment  where  life  made  slighter  demands 
upon  his  endurance.  He  was  a  comedian  who  wisely 
refused  to  play  tragedy.  At  the  slightest  hint  of 
discomfort  he  preferred  to  absent  himself  altogether 
from  the  boards.  Roma,  recognizing  this  in  him, 
was  careful  to  preach  gratitude  and  obligation.  It 
was  she  who  insisted  upon  his  playing  the  part  of 
devoted  nurse  to  Moreton.  Her  hold  over  him, 
given  his  temperament,  was  masterly. 

Sydney  mentally  contrasted  the  two  men.  In  the 
last  few  days  Venice,  and  all  that  it  stood  for  of 
temporal  things,  had  grown  a  trifle  pale  and  indeter- 
minate. No  word  had  come  to  her  from  the  villa 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     339 

on  the  Lido,  and  those  bright  gay  scenes  had  lost 
a  little  of  their  brilliancy  in  her  remembrance.  She 
had  hardly  expected  Roma  to  write,  but  Clive  could 
easily  have  ascertained  her  address  by  calling  at 
her  lodgings.  She  had  been  careful  to  give  it  to 
her  old  landlady  before  she  left,  requesting  that 
any  letters  that  came  might  be  forwarded.  Upon 
this  she  based  her  somewhat  forlorn  hope  of  hear- 
ing from  him  again.  She  was  still  reluctant  to  think 
that  his  silence  was  intended  to  inform  her  tacitly 
that  everything  between  them  was  at  an  end.  But 
as  each  succeeding  day  passed  with  no  sign  from 
him,  the  conclusion  seemed  more  than  probable. 
The  fear  of  it  was  always  with  her,  chilling  her  heart 
like  the  touch  of  icy  fingers.  It  was  with  her  now 
as  she  walked  along  Park  Lane,  a  solitary  little  fig- 
ure with  something  of  that  very  fear  written  in  her 
eyes. 

Instead  of  going  straight  home,  she  turned  down 
South  Street.  She  knew  there  was  a  Catholic  church 
close  by,  and  she  remembered  Wanley's  entreaties 
that  she  would  pray  for  Moira.  She  had  never 
thought  of  him  as  a  particularly  religious  person, 
and  the  request  had  filled  her  with  a  mild  astonish- 
ment. 

She  would  go  into  the  church  now  to  pray.  Not 
only  for  Moira,  but  for  herself,  for  Clive.  She 
would  pray  that  this  tangle  might  somehow  be 
straightened  out.  It  was  impossible  to  go  on  liv- 
ing in  this  state  of  constant  suspense.  It  would 
kill  her,  or  at  least  unfit  her  for  anything.  .  .  .  Un- 
der its  baleful  influence  all  the  spiritual  side  of  her 
life  was  slowly  becoming  atrophied.  Since  her  re- 
turn to  London  she  had  scarcely  prayed  at  all.  She 
had  deliberately  turned  away  from  the  thought  of  it. 
But  the  sight  of  Moira,  of  Wanley's  miserable 
anxiety,  that  sudden  vision  of  life  in  its  grimmer, 
more  serious  mood,  had  made  her  feel  as  if  her 


340     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

own  grief  had  an  element  of  unworthiness  in  it. 

She  stood  hesitatingly  in  the  cobbled  street  out- 
side the  church.  There  were  very  few  people  about, 
and  she  was  little  likely  to  see  any  one  she  knew. 
She  looked  up  at  the  quiet  night  sky  that  hung  above 
London  like  a  filmy  web  punctured  with  a  few  pale 
stars.  A  motor  passed  her  swiftly.  Two  men 
walked  by  together  arguing  in  loud  tones.  The  fa- 
miliar distant  stir  of  traffic  sounded  in  her  ears. 
She  went  up  to  the  door  and  pushed  it  open.  .  .  . 

Inside  the  church  it  was  dark  and  very  quiet. 
Lamps  glimmered  before  the  altars,  and  in  particu- 
lar Sydney  noticed  the  large  hanging  one  that 
burned  before  the  Tabernacle  on  the  High  Altar. 
The  vague  perfume  of  spent  incense  accosted  her 
with  something  of  familiarity,  so  that  the  atmos- 
phere seemed  almost  a  welcoming  one.  Here, 
surely,  she  could  recover  something  of  that  passion- 
ate sense  of  spiritual  things,  their  truth,  their  ulti- 
mate reality,  which  she  had  known  in  Venice.  But 
for  her  sojourn  in  Italy  she  might  have  passed  them 
by  eternally,  have  never  savored  them. 

There  were  flowers  in  profusion  before  a  statue 
of  Our  Lady,  dimly  visible  in  the  dusk.  And  be- 
fore the  altar  of  the  Sacred  Heart,  where  many  thou- 
sands of  converts  have  made  their  abjuration,  a  red 
lamp  burned.  Sydney  crept  up  close  to  the  railing 
and  knelt  down.  She  was  trembling  with  excite- 
ment. It  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  come  thither 
not  only  to  pray  for  Moira's  recovery,  as  Wanley 
had  asked  her  to  do,  but  much  more  to  pray  for 
her  own  needs,  and  to  face  that  inevitable  choice 
which  sooner  or  later  she  would  have  to  make,  irre- 
spective of  Clive's  wishes.  That  he  had  held  her 
back  with  such  strong  force  all  this  time,  against 
her  own  desire  and  against  her  own  conscience, 
seemed  to  her  at  that  moment  almost  terrible.  But 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     341 

she  had  loved  him  so  much  that  she  had  yielded 
rather  than  run  the  risk  of  losing  him.  And  if  Clive 
did  still  love  her  there  would  be  no  escape  for  her, 
the  choice  would  still  have  to  be  made.  She  would 
have  to  confront  the  problem  and  solve  it.  But  was 
it  not  already  solved?  At  that  moment,  exalted, 
almost  ecstatic,  she  felt  capable  of  making  any  re- 
nouncement, even  the  renouncement  of  that  beauti- 
ful human  love  which  had  been  offered  to  her.  The 
words  of  the  Imitation  flashed  back  relentlessly  to 
her  memory:  "So  do  thou  also  learn  to  part  with 
the  necessary  and  beloved  friend  for  the  love  of 
God.  .  .  ." 

And  then  she  remembered  with  an  almost  sick 
foreboding  that  sacrifice  was  sometimes  not  only 
invited  but  exacted.  .  .  .  The  weak  hands  too  frail 
to  offer  it  had  the  chalice  thrust  between  their  fin- 
gers; the  trembling  lips  had  no  choice  but  to  drink 
the  bitter  soul-healing  draught. 

Sydney  knelt  there  for  a  long  time  in  quiet  prayer. 
.  .  .  The  stillness,  the  silence,  the  holy  atmosphere 
of  the  church  with  its  Living  and  Listening  Pres- 
ence, soothed  her.  And  as  she  prayed,  her  faith 
seemed  to  leap  upwards  in  her  heart  like  a  flame. 
She  could  never  quench  it  now.  If  she  did  not  fol- 
low whither  it  led,  into  the  arms  of  the  Catholic 
Church,  the  sin  of  apostasy,  she  knew,  would  be  hers. 

When  at  last  she  rose  to  go,  she  looked  at  her 
watch  in  alarm.  Lady  Flood  would  have  returned 
home  by  now,  would  be  wondering  what  had  become 
of  her,  and  how  she  had  spent  the  interim  after 
leaving  Park  Lane.  She  hurried  home,  and  was  re- 
lieved to  find  that  Duncan  Turner  was  expected  to 
dinner.  Thus  a  solitary  meal  with  her  mother  would 
be  avoided,  and  in  her  present  mood  this  prospect  of 
having  a  third  person  present  was  not  therefore 
unwelcome. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

DUNCAN  was  already  there  when  Sydney  de- 
scended to  the  drawing-room  that  evening. 
No  questions  were  asked  about  her  late  return,  and 
she  began  to  hope  that  it  had  not  been  observed. 
She  felt  that  her  intention  of  becoming  a  Catholic 
would  meet  with  but  little  sympathy  from  Lady 
Flood.  She  would  not  perhaps  actually  disapprove, 
for  she  had  been  heard  to  call  herself  broad-minded 
and  to  say  it  didn't  matter  if  people  were  Buddhists 
or  Mohammedans  as  long  as  they  "lived  up  to  their 
lights."  But  it  would  certainly  furnish  her  with  an 
additional  proof  of  Sydney's  deplorable  inability  to 
conform  to  type.  She  would  probably  say  that  her 
daughter  asked  for  unnormal  extravagant  things 
which  most  girls  never  desired  at  all.  She  wasn't 
contented  with  the  life  that  was  hers.  Lady  Flood 
would  inevitably  regard  this  new  venture  as  another 
symptom  of  Sydney's  "perversity." 

But  to-night  her  thoughts  were  entirely  preoccu- 
pied with  her  younger  daughter,  to  the  entire  exclu- 
sion of  Sydney  and  her  concerns.  She  announced 
during  dinner  her  intention  of  returning  to  Park 
Lane  that  evening.  She  was  not  quite  satisfied  about 
Moira;  she  was  very  good  and  patient  and  uncom- 
plaining, but  the  great  weakness,  the  depression  of 
spirits,  seemed  to  augment  rather  than  to  diminish. 
She  passed  hours  of  lethargy,  and  then  would  arouse 
herself  to  cry  feebly.  It  was  very  distressing  for 
poor  Wanley.  .  .  . 

Sydney  therefore  remained  at  home,  with  the 
prospect  of  an  evening  to  be  spent  in  Duncan's  com- 

342 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     343 

pany.  It  was  a  relief,  rather  than  otherwise,  to 
have  him  there.  And  he  never  stayed  late — he  al- 
ways had  work  on  hand  that  claimed  him  inexorably. 
He  was  a  man  who  naturally  put  work  before  pleas- 
ure, just  as  he,  quite  unpriggishly,  concentrated  all 
his  energy  upon  the  achievement  of  his  duty. 
Amusements  rather  failed  in  their  effect  with  him, 
and  lately,  when  he  had  realized  this  more  clearly, 
he  had  asked  himself  ruefully  if  he  were  growing 
old.  No — it  was  since  the  War.  He  had  not  been 
able  to  return  to  trivialities ;  and  upon  a  world  gone 
mad  with  feverish  dancing,  he  gazed  in  ironic  be- 
wilderment. He  saw  men  and  women  older  than 
himself  caught  up  into  that  whirl,  and  he  secretly 
marveled.  .  .  . 

Lady  Flood  liked  to  think  that  she  was  leaving 
him  and  Sydney  together.  The  more  they  saw  of 
each  other  the  better.  Duncan  was  a  man  who  im- 
proved on  acquaintance,  and  she  herself  had  found 
him  an  agreeable,  entertaining  companion.  She 
wanted  Sydney  to  realize  the  genuine  kindness  of 
heart,  the  great  unselfishness,  that  lay  behind  that 
cool,  sarcastic  manner.  At  one  time  she  had  re- 
garded a  marriage  between  them  as  suitable  rather 
than  particularly  desirable;  it  would  "do"  if  nothing 
better  offered.  But  now  she  had  become  actually 
zealous  to  bring  it  about.  Duncan  was  really  very 
deeply  attached  to  Sydney,  and  she  was  perfectly 
aware  that  he  had  not  taken  his  dismissal  as  final. 
When  Roma  Cochrane  failed  her,  it  would  be  the 
moment  for  him  to  step  in.  And  although  Sydney 
would  not  tell  her  mother  that  Roma  had  failed  her, 
she  was  certain  of  it.  Duncan  had  been  glad  to  find 
that  Lady  Flood  was  now  an  enthusiastic  supporter 
of  his  cause.  They  had  discussed  the  matter  quite 
freely  during  Sydney's  absence.  He  had  learned 
to  appreciate  also  Lady  Flood's  sterling,  if  old- 


344     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

fashioned,  qualities.  All  the  months  of  Sydney's 
sojourn  in  Venice,  he  had  worked  hard  to  bring 
about  a  rapprochement  between  the  estranged 
mother  and  daughter.  He  could  so  readily  sym- 
pathize with  both  their  points  of  view,  and  some- 
times he  felt  it  was  only  his  love  for  Sydney  that 
made  him  throw  his  whole  weight  into  her  side  of 
the  balance.  There  was  certainly  a  great  deal  to 
be  said  for  Lady  Flood's  disapproval  of  the  Venice 
adventure. 

They  sat  opposite  to  each  other  in  the  bright,  pol- 
ished little  room,  with  its  perfection  of  order  and 
detail.  The  September  evening  had  turned  chilly, 
so  that  a  fire  had  been  lit  in  the  small,  modern,  fuel- 
saving  grate.  Lady  Flood  disliked  returning  to  a 
fireless  room. 

"May  I  smoke?"  inquired  Duncan,  taking  out  a 
cigarette  case. 

"Oh,  yes — Mamma  doesn't  mind.  You  see,  she 
has  to  let  Jack  smoke  all  over  the  house !" 

Sydney  was  wearing  a  loosely-made  blue  dress, 
very  pale  in  color,  and  cut  low  at  the  throat.  It 
was  one  of  several  perfectly  new  dresses  she  had 
found  in  her  wardrobe  when  she  returned  home. 
Lady  Flood  knew  enough  of  her  daughter  to  feel 
sure  that  she  would  come  back  from  Venice  in  a 
general  state  of  clotheslessness.  It  was  a  kindly 
thought,  and  Sydney  had  felt  grateful  to  her  mother. 
She  only  wished  that  Lady  Flood  had  also  thought 
of  refunding  the  money  she  had  spent  on  her  hur- 
ried journey.  She  had  only  a  few  shillings  left,  and 
there  was  her  return  journey  to  be  thought  of. 

Sydney  was  looking  better  and  more  rested, 
though  still  wretchedly  thin.  Duncan  felt  a  kind  of 
dismay  as  he  looked  at  her  slender,  thin  arms.  She 
must  have  starved,  or  else  she  had  been  living  on 
her  nerves.  The  latter,  probably!  .  .  . 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     345 

"When  are  you  going  back?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

Sydney  looked  flushed  and  confused. 

"Who  said  anything  about  my  going  back?"  She 
was  on  the  defensive  at  once.  Duncan  laughed. 

"I  rather  think  you  mentioned  it  yourself.  You'd 
left  your  things — whatever  that  elusive  term  may 
mean — in  Venice !  And  have  you  ever  watched  a 
bird  sitting  on  a  twig  when  it  doesn't  mean  to  stay 
there  ?  You  know  by  instinct  as  well  as  observation 
that  it's  preparing  to  fly,  that  it's  only  there  for  one 
moment.  There's  a  little  nervous  quiver — a  trem- 
bling of  wings.  And  then — r !"  He  waved  his  hand 
in  imitation  of  a  bird's  swift  flight. 

"Don't,  please,  say  anything  about  it  to  Mamma," 
said  Sydney;  "it  would  only  distress  her.  I  can't 
help  seeing  that  she  thinks  I've  come  back  for  good. 
And  I  haven't  in  the  least.  I'm  keener  than  ever 
about  having  some  sort  of  career.  But  of  course 
I  shouldn't  dream  of  going  till  Moira's  convales- 
cent." 

"Do  they  write  to  you  from  Venice?"  asked  Dun- 
can. "Do  you  hear  from  them,  Sydney?" 

He  wondered  if  pressure  were  being  brought  to 
bear  upon  her  from  that  side,  urging  her  return. 

She  shook  her  head,  and  to  his  dismay  her  eyes 
filled  with  tears.  "I've  heard  absolutely  nothing 
since  I  left.  They  are  all  ...  very  bad  about 
writing,  but  it  does  seem  so  strange  when  you  have 
lived  with  people  for  so  long  and  known  all  that 
was  going  on  in  the  house,  to  be  cut  off  suddenly 
from  any  news  of  them  at  all.  Roma  always  says 
she  answers  notes  but  never  letters." 

"But  you've  written,  of  course?" 

"Yes — I've  written  to  Roma." 

"I'm  sure  you  must  want  to  hear  very  much  how 
they're  all  getting  on,"  said  Duncan,  sympathetically. 
In  his  private  opinion,  they  must  have  got  rid  of 


346     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

her,  but  so  skillfully,  that  she  actually  believed  she 
had  left  them  of  her  own  accord.  Well,  Mrs. 
Cochrane  was  quite  clever  enough  for  that  too.  .  .  . 

"I  do  ...  very  much  indeed." 

"I  am  sorry  for  you,  Sydney,"  said  Duncan 
imperturbably. 

"Sorry  for  me?" 

"Yes.  I  feel,  you  see,  that  you're  crying  after 
shadows." 

"Shadows !"  repeated  Sydney,  uneasily. 

Ah,  but  he  was  wrong  there,  his  quick  discernment 
had  failed  for  once.  Roma  and  Clive  were  the  two 
real  and  substantial  figures  in  her  life,  and  in  their 
hands  lay  the  making  or  marring  of  it.  They  were 
the  only  people  who  were  bright,  beautiful,  and 
alive.  It  was  he,  Duncan,  who  was  the  shadow,  and 
round  him  moved  other  shadowy  insubstantial  fig- 
ures, her  mother,  Moira,  Wanley.  ... 

"These  people  are  nothing  to  you !"  said  Duncan 
with  a  touch  of  violence. 

Sydney  wanted  to  cry  out  then:  "But  Clive  is 
everything  to  me.  I'm  going  to  marry  him!"  In- 
stead, her  lips  closed  firmly  upon  their  secret.  Clive 
didn't  mean  to  marry  her.  Of  that  she  felt  quite 
sure.  Roma  had  intervened.  He  had  been  in  love 
so  often  before,  and  always  Roma  had  stepped  in, 
mocking,  and  discovered  to  him  the  clumsy  clay  feet 
of  his  idol,  the  flaws  in  the  marble. 

"I  don't  know  what  they've  done  to  you,"  con- 
tinued Duncan,  passionately,  "and  I  don't  suppose 
we  ever  shall  know,  because  quite  obviously  and  per- 
haps very  naturally  you  refuse  to  speak  of  it.  But 
I  judge  by  the  deplorable  effect  upon  you — to  me 
it's  simply  appalling!  They've  taken  away  the  hap- 
piness from  your  eyes — your  beautiful  eyes,  Sydney ! 
— and  the  youth  from  your  face,  and  the  very  flesh 
from  your  bones.  They've  robbed  you  of  appetite 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     347 

and  sleep.  Dear  Sydney — listen  to  me — forget 
them!  .  .  . 

She  listened,  astonished  at  his  indignation,  at  the 
touch  of  passion  with  which  he  had  presented  her 
case.  But  all  the  time  she  was  telling  herself  that 
she  could  never  forget  Clive,  even  if  her  love  for  him 
were  to  kill  her.  She  loved  him  too  much.  And  she 
believed  that  some  day  things  would  be  made  smooth 
again  between  them.  Clive  would  come  back  to  her, 
contemptuous  of  Moreton's  will,  of  Roma's  en- 
treaties, and  they  would  be  married  quietly  in  a 
Catholic  church  and  live  in  some  country  place  in 
England,  away  from  Moreton,  away  from  Roma. 
Clive  would  be  her  very  own.  She  would  possess 
him  entirely.  ...  If  she  did  not  cling  to  this  belief 
she  would  go  mad.  .  .  . 

She  did  not  speak,  but  sat  there  in  an  impassive, 
attentive  attitude,  and  Duncan  saw  the  new  stern- 
ness of  purpose  in  her  face  with  sinking  heart.  The 
wings  were  a-tremble,  preparing  perhaps  for  pro- 
longed flight.  .  .  . 

"I  was  happy,"  she  said  at  last,  "although  I  know 

fou  won't  believe  it,  Duncan.  I  was  happier  than 
Ve  ever  been.  But  don't  let's  talk  about  it.  It 
isn't  a  subject  on  which  we're  ever  likely  to  agree. 
And  there's  something  else  I  want  to  tell  you." 

"Yes?"  he  said,  and  leaned  forward  a  little.  Was 
she  going  to  lift  the  veil,  if  only  partially?  His  gaze 
was  very  intent  and  eager,  but  Sydney,  occupied  with 
her  own  thoughts,  scarcely  noticed  him. 

"I  can  trust  you,  of  course,  not  to  say  anything 
to  Mamma  ?" 

"I  think  so." 

"She  would  be  so  distressed  I" 

"Yes?" 

"When  I  was  abroad  I  thought  a  great  deal 
about  religion- — the  Catholic  religion,"  she  said. 


348     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

"You  know,  in  Italy  it's  difficult  to  get  away 
from  it.  One  wonders  sometimes  at  the  im- 
mense number  of  people  who  go  there  and  never 
seem  to  think  about  it  at  all.  Whereas,  it  is 
everywhere — all  around  you.  The  shrines  at  street 
corners — out  even  on  the  lagoon — the  pictures,  the 
statues,  and  then  the  churches,  so  beautiful,  so 
splendid." 

"I  know,"  he  said.  An  immense  relief  took  pos- 
session of  him. 

"And  so  I  thought  a  great  deal  about  becoming 
a  Catholic." 

"I  can  quite  understand  it.    But  why  didn't  you?" 

"There  were  obstacles,"  she  answered.  "I 
thought  then  I  could  put  it  off — wait  a  little.  But 
now  I  feel  I  can't  wait.  .  .  ." 

"And  are  these  particular  obstacles  removed?" 
he  inquired. 

"Oh  no,  they're  quite  permanent." 

"Then,  1  take  it,  you've  resolved  not  to  notice 
them  any  more?" 

"I  ...  think  so.  You  see  I'm  in  a  very  difficult 
position.  I  must  be  received  into  the  Catholic 
Church  because  I  am  a  Catholic — I  have  the  faith 
— I  can't  remain  outside.  It  would  be  wrong."  She 
lifted  her  eyes  to  his;  they  were  glowing  with  a 
steady  fire.  "But  I  shall  be  hurting  myself  if  I  do  it." 

"I  suppose  you  can't  possibly  speak  to  me  quite 
plainly  for  once, — without  these  enigmas?"  he  said, 
a  trifle  impatiently. 

"No.  I've  promised.  Otherwise  I  think  I  should 
tellyou,  Duncan." 

The  little  confession  touched  him  enormously,  and 
he  could  not  resist  taking  advantage  of  it. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Sydney,  I  wish  there  were  no  secrets 
between  us.  You  know,  I  think,  how  deeply  all  your 
difficulties  concern  me  1" 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     349 

There  was  a  little  pause.    Then  she  said: 

"Couldn't  you  help  me  then  to  become  a 
Catholic?" 

"Well,  I  know  one  or  two  priests.  One  of  them — 
a  very  good  chap — was  with  me  at  Oxford.  I'm 
sure  he  could  help  you.  He  is  a — soul-hunter !" 

"I  should  like  to  know  him,"  said  Sydney,  simply. 
"And  you  think  I'm  right,  don't  you,  in  wishing  to 
become  a  Catholic  as  soon  as  possible?" 

"Certainly,  if  you're  quite  convinced  you  ought 
to  be  one." 

"Oh,  I'm  quite  sure  about  that.  I  spent  a  long 
time  in  the  church  in  Farm  Street  this  evening.  I 
saw  everything  quite  clearly." 

"Well,  then,  I  think  it's  the  best  step  you  can  pos- 
sibly take.  I  regard  it  as  perfectly  awful,  the  way 
in  which  young  girls  and  boys  leave  their  homes  now 
and  go  out  to  work  in  the  world  at  the  very  age 
when  they  are  most  susceptible  to  any  new  and 
vicious  teaching,  without  the  support  of  any  religion 
at  all.  But,  Sydney,  I  came  in  contact  with  the 
Catholic  religion  for  the  first  time  when  I  was  in 
France.  I  tell  you  the  crucifix  came  into  its  own  in 
the  trenches.  It  was  the  one  live  true  thing  in  the 
midst  of  all  that  havoc  and  destruction  that  was 
slaying  the  youth  of  the  world.  Men  prayed  there 
who  had  never  prayed  before.  I've  been  present 
when  the  priest  came  to  administer  the  Last  Sacra- 
ments to  a  dying  poilu.  And  I  used  to  wonder  then 
how  the  Reformation  here  in  England  ever  managed 
to  stamp  out  the  faith  in  the  efficacy  of  those  Sacra- 
ments from  among  our  people.  That  last  Absolu- 
tion and  anointing  .  .  .  that  final  consolation  of  the 
Viaticum.  I  know  it  was  stamped  out,  but  how? 
Abroad,  men  who  have  neglected  their  religion  for 
years  seldom  fail  to  send  for  a  priest  to  give  them 
that  last  comfort  and  assurance  when  they're  dying!" 


350     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

His  experience  in  the  trenches  then  had  been 
much  the  same  as  dive's.  Both  these  men  had  been 
brought  sharply  into  contact  with  the  Old  Faith,  had 
seen  its  vitality,  its  divine  mission  in  the  midst  of  a 
ruined,  bleeding  world.  And  upon  them  both  it  had 
made  a  strong  and  lasting  impression. 

"Then  you — you  wouldn't  be  against  it?"  said 
Sydney.  She  had  a  growing  confidence  in  Duncan's 
judgment. 

"On  the  contrary — J'm  heart  and  soul  for  it!"  he 
assured  her.  "I  believe  that  the  Catholic  Church  is 
the  one  live  spiritual  force  in  the  world  to-day.  She 
is  the  true  League  of  Nations — no  other  can  have 
any  moral  value.  She  is  the  spiritual  tie  that  links 
nations  in  a  great  commonwealth.  And  she  carries 
her  own  credentials — she  has  existed  triumphantly 
for  nearly  two  thousand  years.  In  England — in 
America — everywhere  her  great  work  is  steadily 
progressing." 

His  enthusiastic  words  kindled  her  own  thoughts 
till  they  seemed  to  resemble  steady  flames. 

"Oh,  Duncan,  I  never  thought  you'd  talk  like 
that.  It — it  is  splendid  to  hear  you !" 

It  was  a  relief  to  find  that  Duncan  was  not  only 
sympathetic,  but  eager  and  enthusiastic. 

"Well,  I  shall  take  you  to  see  Father  John  one 
day.  You'll  like  him,  and  I'm  sure  he'll  help  you. 
You'll  find  him  a  very  wise  person." 

"Yes,  I  should  like  that,"  said  Sydney. 

When  Lady  Flood  returned  about  ten  o'clock,  she 
was  charmed  to  find  them  sitting  over  the  fire  and 
talking  in  quite  an  engrossed  manner.  She  won- 
dered what  Duncan  found  to  say  to  Sydney,  as  she 
herself  always  felt  her  to  be  the  reverse  of  stimu- 
lating. She  beamed  upon  them. 

"How  is  Moira?"  said  Sydney. 

They  were  all  three  standing  now  in  front  of  the 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     351 

fire,  Lady  Flood  between  her  daughter  and  Dun- 
can Turner. 

"She  seems  a  little  better — I've  left  her  sleeping 
quietly.  Wanley  says  your  visit  did  her  good — you 
must  go  again.  I  have  begged  him  to  get  some 
rest.  Poor  fellow — he's  quite  worn  out." 

"I'm  very  glad  to  hear  there's  an  improvement," 
Duncan  said  quietly.  He  glanced  at  the  clock  and 
added:  "I  must  be  going  now — I've  rather  a  lot 
to  do  between  this  and  to-morrow  morning.  When 
will  you  come  out  with  me,  Sydney?  You  don't  take 
enough  exercise." 

"To-morrow  afternoon,  if  you  like,"  said  Sydney. 

She  wondered  if  he  would  make  a  plan  so  that 
they  might  go  and  see  Father  John.  She  was  nearly 
certain  that  this  was  in  his  mind.  Duncan  always 
planne'd  and  carried  out  things  as  quickly  as  possible. 

Lady  Flood  glanced  at  them  curiously.  But  she 
only  said: 

"You're  quite  right,  Duncan.  Sydney  wants 
fresh  air  and  exercise.  She  is  much  too  pale." 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

DUNCAN  called  for  Sydney  about  three  o'clock  on 
the  following  day.  Lady  Flood  smiled  appro- 
bation upon  their  departure  together.  Matters  were 
certainly  looking  much  more  hopeful,  and  her  castle- 
building  was  at  once  renewed  under  what  really 
seemed  far  more  auspicious  circumstances.  She  had 
heard  much  praise  of  Duncan  both  from  his  col- 
leagues and  from  others,  and  all  that  she  had  heard 
inclined  her  to  regard  him  with  considerable  favor. 
Sydney  would  be  lucky  to  get  him  for  a  husband,  was 
her  private  opinion.  And  there  was  nothing  in  his 
demeanor  to  suggest  that  he  had  taken  his  former 
dismissal  seriously.  He  was  genuinely  devoted  to 
Sydney,  and  it  was  to  be  hoped  that  some  day  she 
would  display  sufficient  sense  to  appreciate  and  re- 
turn that  devotion. 

She  must  learn  first  of  all  to  forget  those  "fool- 
ish Cochrane  people,"  as  Lady  Flood  mentally 
termed  them. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  said  Sydney,  as  they 
started  out  in  the  direction  of  the  Park. 

"We  shall  take  a  taxi  and  go  straight  to  Father 
John's.  He  is  expecting  us." 

Sydney  was  a  little  startled.  That  exalted  mood 
of  yesterday  had  dropped  from  her,  those  fine  fer- 
vors were  gone.  Life,  like  the  September  day,  was 
a  trifle  gray  and  chilly.  She  wondered  what  she 
would  say  to  Father  John. 

Duncan's  precipitate  action  in  thus  immediately 
planning  a  meeting  between  them  seemed  a  slightly 
severe  proceeding  to  a  person  who  was  prone  to 

352 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     353 

dream  and  procrastinate.  Sydney  liked  to  "feel  in 
the  mood."  And  to-day  she  did  not  feel  in  the 
mood.  Duncan,  however,  seemed  to  ignore  her  hid- 
den unwillingness. 

"Don't  let's  go  to-day,  Duncan,"  she  said  sud- 
denly, "I  think  I  feel  nervous  and  as  if  I'd  rather 
wait." 

"No  time  like  the  present,"  said  Duncan  cheer- 
fully, but  with  an  odd  determination.  "First  steps 
are  always  odious.  And  this  is  a  very  important 
first  step." 

He  walked  on  inexorably.  She  knew  that  in  an- 
other few  minutes  she  would  be  sitting  beside  him  in 
a  taxi  whirling  towards  the  unknown  abode  of 
Father  John. 

"Why  do  you  want  me  to  go  so  much?"  she  said. 
"You  know  I  never  make  up  my  mind  so  quickly  as 
all  that.  I  like  to  have  lots  of  time  to  think 
things  over." 

"Well,  in  the  first  place  I  want  to  get  you  back  to 
a  more  normal  state.  And  I  think  Father  John  will 
help  you." 

Sydney  was  indignant.  "Just  because  I'm  rather 
thin  you  think  I'm  not  normal !" 

Her  gray  eyes  flashed. 

"Oh,  my  dear  Sydney,"  he  said,  stopping  in  front 
of  her,  "it's  your  soul  that's  sick — we  can  all  see  that. 
And  Father  John  is  a  first  rate  man  for  souls !" 

He  hailed  a  passing  taxi,  helped  Sydney  into  it, 
and  then  gave  the  driver  some  minute  directions. 
They  turned  northward  across  the  Park,  which  was 
looking  beautiful  to-day,  all  misty  with  dim  distances 
and  yellowing  trees,  and  some  brilliant  groups 
of  dahlias  and  chrysanthemums  blooming  in  the 
flower-beds. 

Sydney  sat  back,  resolutely  silent.  Duncan  was 
not,  after  all,  an  agreeable  companion;  he  was  much 


354     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

too  autocratic.  If  he  ever  married  she  thought  that 
his  wife  would  probably  be  afraid  of  him.  Mentally 
she  contrasted  him  with  Cl'tve,  and  it  was  certain 
that  Clive  did  not  lose.  His  sunny  humor,  his  non- 
chalance, his  easy  good-nature  were  his  most  pro- 
nounced characteristics,  making  intercourse  with 
him  both  pleasant  and  delightful.  All  that  he  did 
was  performed  with  an  admirable  and  natural  grace. 
Clive  would  never  have  imposed  his  will  upon  her 
in  this  way,  although  he  had  had  a  far  greater  right 
to  do  so.  He  never  hurried  her,  but  always  coun- 
seled prudence.  Last  night  when  she  returned  from 
Farm  Street,  she  would  have  gone  with  eagerness  to 
see  this  unknown  priest,  but  the  day  had  brought 
calmer  counsels,  and  she  would  have  preferred  to 
reflect  further  before  taking  even  this  first  step. 
What  did  Duncan  mean  by  giving  her  this  push,  as 
it  were,  into  those  dark  and  untried  waters? 

"If  you  think  I'm  going  to  confide  my  private  af- 
fairs to  him,  you  are  very  much  mistaken,"  said 
Sydney  presently. 

Duncan  looked  at  her  with  a  slight  lift  of  the 
eyebrows. 

"What  you  say  to  him  is  entirely  your  own 
affair." 

"And  I  don't  think  it  will  be  any  use  beginning  my 
instruction  now.  I  shouldn't  have  time  to  be  re- 
ceived before  I  go  back  to  Venice." 

"If  you  ever  do  go  back  to  Venice,"  said  Dun- 
can, imperturbably. 

"I've  every  intention  of  going  back  the  moment 
Moira's  better.  Mamma  is  sure  to  take  her  away 
to  the  sea — it's  an  infallible  remedy  with  her. 
Brighton  or  Bournemouth — •"  Sydney  cherished 
unenviable  memories  of  being  deported  to  one  of 
those  resorts  after  childish  ailments  such  as  measles 
or  chicken-pox. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     355 

"Well,  you  might  go  to  Bournemouth  too, 
mightn't  you?"  said  Duncan. 

"You  don't  seem  to  understand  that  I'm  going 
back  to  Venice  to  work." 

"Yes,  I  do  understand  that's  what  you  want  to 
do.  Whether  it's  the  best  or  the  right  thing  is  an- 
other matter." 

Sydney  only  said:  "Even  if  I  don't  stay  there 
very  long,  I  must  go  back  to  fetch  my  things." 

"Couldn't  Mrs.  Cochrane  have  them  sent?" 

"I  can't  trouble  Roma.  She  has  so  much  to  do^? 
with  her  husband  so  often  ill." 

"Well,  you  know  best  about  that,"  he  said. 

Convinced  as  he  was  of  Sydney's  talent,  he  felt 
that  in  Venice,  especially  since  she  had  left  the  Coch- 
ranes'  house,  she  was  not  working  under  the  best 
conditions  either  for  her  health  or  her  art.  She 
was  far  too  inexperienced  to  take  adequate  care  of 
herself,  and  he  formed  an  indifferent  opinion  as  to 
the  meals  she  had  when  living  alone.  But  Sydney 
would  reveal  nothing  of  her  daily  life,  either  when 
she  was  with  Mrs.  Cochrane  or  while  she  had  re- 
mained alone  in  Venice.  She  carefully  shielded 
those  happenings  from  profane  eyes.  Something 
was  at  the  back  of  it  all  ...  and  then  she  had 
promised  not  to  tell.  But  Duncan  was  very  near  the 
truth  sometimes  in  some  of  his  conjectures. 

"Here  we  are,"  he  said  suddenly,  as  the  taxi 
driver  drew  up  before  a  high  narrow  house,  built  of 
discolored  bricks  and  stained  with  the  soot  and 
smoke  of  ages. 

The  door  was  opened  by  an  aged  woman  who 
showed  them  into  a  parlor.  It  was  bleak  and  ugly 
with  gray  distempered  walls,  a  polished  table,  and 
a  couple  of  wooden  chairs.  There  were  one  or  two 
pious  pictures  on  the  walls.  The  outlook  over  a  nar- 
row little  yard  was  even  less  inspiring  than  the  room 


356     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

itself.  Something  of  its  depression  descended  upon 
Sydney,  who  was  in  a  nervous  highly-sensitive  mood. 
She  was  angry  with  Duncan  for  bringing  her  hither 
against  her  will,  yet  secretly  some  part  of  her  was 
paradoxically  grateful  to  him  because  he  had  taken 
the  difficulty  of  the  decision  out  of  her  own  hands. 

Hitherto  she  had  never  realized  how  formidable 
Duncan  could  be;  she  was  thankful  now  that  she 
had  refused  to  marry  him.  "He's  worse  than 
Mamma,"  she  thought.  It  would  have  been  an  ex- 
change from  one  form  of  domestic  tyranny  to  an- 
other and  far  more  enduring  one. 

Duncan,  ignorant  of  the  unfavorable  impression 
he  had  made,  sat  there  looking  perfectly  calm  and 
slightly  ironical.  He  had,  however,  enormous 
faith  in  Father  John,  and  he  hoped  that  Sydney  was 
not  going  to  behave  too  absurdly.  Still,  she  was 
showing  signs  of  life,  of  vitality,  again.  Anything 
was  better  than  that  impassive  stupor;  it  had 
alarmed  him. 

The  door  opened  and  Father  John  came  into  the 
room.  He  was  a  youngish  man,  not  much  past 
thirty,  and  he  looked  little  older  than  Duncan  him- 
self. He  was  dark  with  a  thin  face  and  calm  brown 
eyes. 

"This  is  Miss  Flood,  Father,"  said  Duncan. 

Sydney  rose  and  shook  hands  with  the  priest.  On 
the  whole  she  was  favorably  impressed  by  him.  He 
looked  business-like  and  full  of  common-sense.  He 
wouldn't  ask  impossible  things  of  her.  If  Duncan 
left  them  alone  together,  she  thought  that  she  would 
tell  him  exactly  how  matters  stood  and  ask  his 
advice. 

Duncan  had  every  intention  of  leaving  them  alone 
altogether.  "I'll  go  and  look  around  the  church," 
he  said.  "If  I  can  find  any  one  to  blow  for  me,  I 
might  have  a  go  at  the  organ." 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     357 

"I  think  you'll  find  Pearce  there,"  said  Father 
John. 

When  Duncan  had  gone  out  of  the  room,  he  mo- 
tioned Sydney  to  a  seat  and  sat  down  opposite  to 
her.  The  table  was  between  them,  and  Father  John 
took  up  a  penholder  that  was  lying  there  in  con- 
venient proximity  to  an  ink-stand  and  fidgeted  a  lit- 
tle with  it.  He  asked  Sydney  one  or  two  questions, 
and  she  answered  him  frankly. 

"Have  you  ever  read  this?"  he  said,  taking  a  little 
red  book  from  a  drawer. 

She  glanced  at  the  cover.  It  was  the  Catechism. 
"No — I've  never  read  it." 

"Well  you'd  better  go  through  it  as  soon  as  you 
can  and  see  if  it  has  any  difficulties  for  you.  It's 
rather  a  stumbling-block  to  some  people,  you  know." 

"I'm  not  afraid  of  stumbling-blocks.  I'm  so 
utterly  convinced." 

"Still,  we  mustn't  do  anything  with  our  eyes  shut," 
said  Father  John.  "And  now  will  you  tell  me  as 
far  as  you  can  just  what  has  brought  you  like  this 
to  the  door  of  the  Catholic  Church?  Are  there  any 
Catholics  in  your  family?  Have  you  been  thrown 
with  Catholics  who  have  presented  their  faith  to  you 
in  an  attractive  light?  1  think  I  must  know  a  little 
how  you've  come  to  this  conclusion  of  complete 
conviction." 

Sydney  tried  to  relate  as  faithfully  as  possible 
those  various  experiences  which  had  brought  her  to 
the  door,  as  he  expressed  it.  There  was  the  light 
on  the  lagoon,  shining  suddenly,  mysteriously,  out  of 
the  darkness  and  revealing  the  dim  figure  of  the 
Madonna  holding  the  Child  in  her  arms.  There 
was  the  young  St.  Placid  in  the  Benedictine  Church 
of  San  Giorgio,  with  the  cruel  nail  piercing  his  boy- 
ish brow.  The  funeral  at  San  Michele  with  its  note 
of  everlasting  hope  that  had  struck  her  so  forcibly. 


358     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

The  many  times  she  had  attended  Mass,  at  first  ig- 
norant and  astray,  and  then  following  the  liturgy 
with  an  extreme  joy.  There  was  nothing  to  hold  her 
back  in  the  shape  of  doubt  or  difficulty.  .  .  .  And 
then  she  paused.  For  the  other  influences  were  just 
then  very  strong,  very  potent.  She  seemed  to  have 
a  vision  of  Clive  sitting  by  her  side  on  the  sands  of 
the  Lido,  and  telling  her  that  he  loved  her,  and  ask- 
ing her  for  his  sake  to  postpone  the  matter. 

She  told  Father  John  the  whole  history  of  her 
engagement  to  Clive.  He  would  treat  the  confi- 
dence, he  assured  her,  as  if  it  had  been  made  under 
the  seal  of  the  confessional. 

"So  you  think  if  he  married  a  Catholic  he  would 
forfeit  any  money  that  might  otherwise  have  come 
to  him  through  his  cousin?"  he  inquired. 

"Yes.    That  was  expressly  stated." 

"And  you  think  you  run  the  risk  of  losing  him  in 
consequence  ?" 

"It's  what  I'm  afraid  of.  It  is  what  has  kept  me 
hanging  back." 

"But  now  you  are  not  going  to  hang  back  any 
more,"  said  Father  John,  very  kindly  indeed.  "Al- 
mighty God  very  often  asks  great  sacrifices  of  the 
convert  as  if  to  test  his  faith  and  endurance.  It 
has  seemed  to  some  people  almost  like  a  payment. 
And  as  a  rule  I  hope  we  are  quite  ready  to  pay." 
He  smiled  down  at  Sydney  almost  with  compas- 
sion. 

Payment?  The  word  fell  ominously  upon  her  ear. 
But  she  had  always  known  that  the  price  might  be 
a  heavy  one.  It  was  this  very  dread  that  had  held 
her  back  so  long.  Now  something  stronger  than  all 
her  fears  was  urging  her  forward.  She  had  passed 
the  stage  when  she  was  able  to  choose. 

At  that  moment  the  future  seemed  to  her  to  be 
veiled  in  thickest  darkness.  Yes,  there  would  be 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     359 

payment  and  sacrifice,  exacted  even  to  the  uttermost 
farthing.  But  she  knew  something  of  the  value  of 
those  spiritual  gift*  which  would  be  eternally  hers. 
One  would  surely  renounce  all  temporal  things  in 
order  to  obtain  them. 

"Does  the  prospect  alarm  you?"  Father  John 
asked. 

Duncan  Turner  had  spoken  to  him  of  her  courage, 
her  nobility  of  soul.  He  seemed  to  discern  dimly 
then  the  presence  of  those  qualities  in  her. 

"Not  too  much — I  mean,  I'm  quite  ready  to  pay," 
she  answered. 

"I  have  a  sister  in  Milan,"  he  continued;  "she's 
a  nun  in  a  convent  there.  If  you  return  to  Italy, 
I'd  like  you  to  go  and  see  her.  She  would  welcome 
you  warmly.  I'll  give  you  the  address."  He  wrote 
it  on  a  slip  of  paper  and  handed  it  to  her.  "But  you 
must  think  a  great  deal  before  you  decide  to  make 
that  journey.  I  should  like  you  to  put  it  off  till  after 
you've  been  received.  It's  just  as  well  to  give  that 
time  of  study  and  preparation  entirely  to  Almighty 
God.  Great  graces  often  await  the  convert — won- 
derful answers  to  prayer." 

He  went  to  a  drawer  and  took  out  a  prayer-book 
in  which  he  wrote  some  words.  Then  he  gave  it  to 
Sydney.  She  glanced  at  the  inscription,  which  ran  as 
follows:  In  all  things  taking  the  shield  of  faith 
wherewith  you  may  he  able  to  extinguish  the  fiery 
darts  of  the  most  wicked  one.  And  take  unto  you 
the  helmet  of  salvation  and  the  sword  of  the  Spirit 
which  is  the  word  of  God" 

The  Sword  of  the  Spirit.  .  .  .  She  had  the  feeling 
then  that  it  had  pierced  her  heart. 

"Now  if  you  will  kneel  down  I  will  give  you  a 
blessing,"  said  Father  John,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 

Sydney  obeyed,  and  as  she  knelt  there  he  raised 
his  hand  and  made  the  sign  of  the  Cross  over  her 


360     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

bowed  head,  and  murmured  the  words  of  the  Latin 
blessing. 

"And  now  we'll  go  and  find  Duncan,"  said  the 
priest,  leading  the  way  down  a  long  darkish  passage 
which  led  into  the  sacristy  and  thence  into  the  church. 
Rather  doleful  sounds  proceeded  from  the  organ, 
for  Duncan  was  testing  some  of  the  stops.  But  on 
hearing  them  approach  he  began  to  play  Gounod's 
A ve  Maria. 

Father  John  and  Sydney  had  climbed  up  into  the 
organ  gallery.  Duncan  turned  his  head  and  smiled. 
He  ended  upon  a  crashing  chord. 

"Ready,  Sydney?" 

"Yes,"  said  Sydney. 

They  said  good-by  to  the  priest,  and  he  fixed  a  day 
for  Sydney  to  come  for  her  first  instruction.  She 
agreed  quite  meekly. 

On  their  way  back  to  the  taxi  she  suddenly  turned 
to  Duncan  after  a  long  pause : 

"Duncan,  I  want  to  thank  you  ever  so  much.  I 
didn't  want  to  go  a  bit — but  you  were  quite  right  to 
insist,  though  it  seemed  rather  brutal  at  the  time. 
Honestly,  I'm  most  awfully  grateful." 

Duncan  let  his  hand  rest  lightly  upon  hers  for 
the  fraction  of  a  second. 

"I  knew  you'd  like  Father  John,"  was  all  he  said. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

DUNCAN  made  some  excuse  and  refused  Sydney's 
invitation  to  come  back  and  have  tea  with  her. 
He  left  her  at  the  door  of  her  mother's  house, 
realizing  better  than  she  did  the  necessity  of  solitude 
for  her  just  then.  Father  John  had  perhaps  not  said 
very  much  to  her  that  day,  but  whatever  he  had  said 
it  had  brought  back  something  of  its  old  peace  and 
serenity  to  the  girl's  face.  Her  thanks  and  gratitude 
had  touched  him,  he  could  gauge  by  that  the  meas- 
ure of  the  priest's  success. 

Sydney  went  up  to  the  drawing-room  and  sat  down 
by  the  fire.  Wright  brought  in  the  tea,  and  she 
drank  some,  for  she  was  feeling  both  cold  and  a 
little  exhausted.  Her  mother  would  probably  not 
return  till  dinner-time.  Sydney  was  conscious  of  a 
wish  to  tell  Lady  Flood  about  her  visit  to  Father 
John.  She  did  not  want  to  make  a  secret  of  it.  She 
was  tired  of  secrets,  of  the  atmosphere  of  intrigue 
that  they  created.  And  the  moment  was  not  an  un- 
propitious  one,  for  her  mother  was  so  preoccupied 
with  Moira  that  she  accepted  lesser  misfortunes  and 
annoyances  with  an  admirable  resignation. 

As  she  was  sitting  there,  Wright  came  into  the 
room  with  a  small  silver  tray  on  which  were  a  letter 
and  a  telegram.  They  were  both  addressed  to  Syd- 
ney, and  even  before  she  recognized  Roma's  hand- 
writing, she  had  observed  the  blue  Italian  stamp  on 
the  envelope. 

Wright  withdrew,  and  Sydney  tore  open  the  tele- 
gram. It  consisted  only  of  a  few  words:  Moreton 
died  this  morning,  Roma. 

Moreton  died  this  morning.  .  .  .  The  date  was 
361 


362     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

tkat  of  two  days  ago.  Moreton  died  this  morning. 
.  .  .  What  did  it  mean?  What  could  it  mean? 
And  then  suddenly  she  had  a  vision  of  Clive  that 
stabbed  her  like  a  spear.  Clive,  alone  with  Roma, 
comforting  Roma,  helping  Roma.  All  his  immense 
filial  solicitude  transferred  from  Moreton  to  Roma. 
She  gave  a  low  wild  sobbing  cry,  like  a  creature 
wounded  to  death.  It  was  torn  from  her,  an  ex- 
pression of  the  dreadful  and  insupportable  anguish 
that  was  torturing  her,  body  and  soul.  Moreton 
died  this  morning.  .  .  .  Roma  was  a  widow.  She 
was  free.  And  in  that  new  freedom  of  Roma's 
Sydney  saw  the  rock  upon  which  her  own  happi- 
ness would  indubitably  suffer  shipwreck. 

She  forgot  to  open  Roma's  letter.  Even  if  she 
had  thought  of  it,  it  is  possible  that  she  might  have 
omitted  to  read  it  then.  The  telegram  must  neces- 
sarily contain  later  news  than  the  letter.  Leaving 
her  cup  half  full  of  tea  Sydney  went  up  to  her  own 
room.  She  sat  down  near  the  writing-table  and  took 
a  telegraph  form  from  a  little  rack  holding  writing- 
paper,  post-cards,  and  luggage-labels,  which  stood 
there.  She  dipped  her  pen  in  the  ink.  What  could 
she  say  to  Roma?  Just  this — that  she  was  sorry? 
She  was  indeed  sorry  with  an  anguish  of  grief  that 
seemed  to  blot  out  everything  else.  But  she  could 
not  say  that  to  Roma.  The  message  must  be  short 
and  quite  conventional.  In  the  end  she  wrote  sim- 
ply: Please  accept  my  deep  sympathy,  Sydney. 
She  could  picture  Roma  opening  it  and  tossing  it 
carelessly  aside.  She  would  receive  hundreds  of 
messages  of  similar  purport. 

She  went  out  and  took  the  telegram  herself  to  the 
nearest  post-office.  The  fresh  air  did  her  good  and 
revived  her.  When  she  returned  home  the  wish  to 
cry  had  quite  left  her;  she  was  tranquil  and  com- 
posed, even  a  little  ashamed  of  her  late  outburst. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     363 

How  thankful  she  was  that  Duncan  had  declined  to 
come  in  to  tea.  If  he  had  come  he  would  have  been 
present  when  she  received  Roma's  telegram. 

When  she  was  back  in  her  bedroom  she  suddenly 
remembered  the  letter,  and  taking  it  up  she  tore  open 
the  envelope.  Probably  it  would  be  quite  short, 
perhaps  warning  her  that  Moreton  had  suddenly  be- 
come much  worse.  She  had  no  presentiment  of 
approaching  evil,  when  she  first  opened  Roma's 
letter. 

For  a  long  time  she  sat  there,  gazing  at  the  thin 
gray  sheet  in  her  hand,  incredulous,  unbelieving. 
Sometimes  when  people  have  received  some  hideous, 
mortal,  physical  wound  they  have  been  known  to 
experience  something  of  that  incredulity,  that  sense 
of  complete  unreality  which  possessed  Sydney  now. 
It  was  a  nightmare  from  which  she  would  certainly 
soon  awake.  It  was  not  possible  that  Roma^ — who 
had  once  loved  her — could  have  hurt  her  thus. 
Other  hands  might  be  cruel  in  their  impulses  to 
destroy,  but  not  Roma's.  Sydney  in  her  heart  had 
trusted  Roma  against  her  own  better  judgment. 
She  had  loved  her  very  much,  and  more  readily, 
more  eagerly,  than  she  had  ever  loved  any  one  be- 
fore. Much  more  readily  even  than  she  had  loved 
Clive,  whose  gentle  half-mocking  aloofness  had  so 
suddenly  changed  to  a  passionate  devotion  that  had 
warmed  her  own  heart  and  made  heavy  demands 
upon  it.  Once  she  had  believed  that  Roma's  love 
for  her  was  fixed  as  the  eternal  stars.  Now  it  was  a 
dead  thing.  And  in  its  death  it  wore  the  terrible 
mask  of  hatred.  She  hid  her  eyes.  She  was 
afraid  to  look,  even  in  imagination,  upon  that 
dead  face.  .  .  . 

"Dear  Sydney  "  the  letter  ran,  written  in  Roma's 
perfect  upright  hand/'jf  has  been  on  my  mind  to< 


364     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

write  to  you  ever  since  you  left  butt  miserable  weak- 
lings that  we  are,  we  are  all  apt  to  defer  the  saying 
of  a  disagreeable  but  true  thing.  And  I  am  going 
to  say  something  that  you  will  certainly  dislike  and 
possibly  resent.  To  begin  with  Moreton  is  very  ill 
indeed  and  the  doctors  hold  out  very  little  hope  of 
his  recovery.  He  is  conscious  and  knows  both  Clive 
and  myself  and  is  restless  if  we  leave  him.  This 
will  explain  to  you  why  after  you  left  we  were  not 
able  to  take  much  notice  of  you;  we  were  so  fully 
and  anxiously  occupied.  But  I  am  sure  you  must 
have  known  for  some  time  past  that  Moreton' s  opin- 
ion of  your  talent  had  completely  changed.  He  had 
most  reluctantly  come  to  the  conclusion  that  you  were 
incapable  of  ever  having  a  satisfactory  career  as  an 
artist,  and  he  deeply  regretted  that  he  had  ever  per- 
suaded you  to  leave  home  and  study  abroad.  He 
considered  you  a  clever  copyist,  but  when  you  at- 
tempted to  be  original,  as  in  the  portrait  you  did  of 
myself,  the  result  was  merely  laughable.  It  is  for 
this  reason  that  I  am  now  writing  to  urge  you  most 
strongly  not  to  return  to  Venice.  Your  place  is 
where  it  has  always  been — with  your  mother.  This 
life  here  is  far  too  exhausting,  exciting,  and  feverish 
for  you.  I  have  for  some  time  past  been  observing 
its  effect  upon  you,  and  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  tell  you 
I  have  judged  it  to  be  a  distinctly  deteriorating  one. 
When  you  coolly  set  aside  my  friendship  and  began 
to  show  an  absurd  adoring  devotion  to  Clive,  who  can 
never  resist  such  encouragement,  accustomed  as  he  is 
to  feminine  adulation  (and  of  this  I  had  especially 
warned  you)f  I  resolved  to  put  an  end  to  a  situation 
that  was  becoming  impossible  for  us  all.  If  you 
ever  cherished  the  remotest  hope  that  Clive  would 
marry  you,  I  can  now  assure]  you  that  there  is  no'*1 
nor  ever  was  the  slightest  prospect  of  such  a  con- 
tingency. Nor  is  Clive  in  the  least  responsible  for 
what  was  certainly  the  product  of  your  own  unre- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     365 

strained  and  undisciplined  imagination.  Remain  in 
England,  my  dear  Sydney,  paint  a  little  in  your  spare1 
time,  and  above  all  marry  that  nice  young  man  who 
brought  you  such  a  handsome  nosegay  the  day  we 
left  Victoria  station.  You  will  hate  me  for  speaking 
the  truth,  and  for  thus  putting  an  end  to  all  inter- 
course between  us,  but  it  is  the  only  thing  you  have 
left  me  to  do.  Want  of  perfect  frankness  must 
necessarily  destroy  friendship,  and  you  have  lived  in 
terror,  I  am  sure,  lest  I  should  suddenly  discover  the 
truth.  Clive  knows  that  I  am  writing  and  he  is  also 
fully  informed  of  the  substance  of  my  letter.  Yours 
sincerely,  Roma  Cochrane. 

At  first  Sydney  did  not  cry.  She  sat  there  by  the 
table,  her  head  and  eyes  burning,  and  a  sick,  dis- 
mayed indignation  possessing  all  of  her  that  still 
had  sense  to  feel  any  emotion  at  all.  There  was 
anger  in  her  heart — anger  at  the  shame  thrust  upon 
her — but  at  the  back  of  it,  trying  to  hide,  trying  to 
veil  its  face,  the  figure  of  Grief  lurked  phantom-like. 
She  must  keep  it  hidden  and  veiled.  .  .  .  She  must 
not  let  it  come  quite  near.  .  .  .  Better  hot  anger 
than  the  sense  of  humiliating  grief  over  that  broken 
friendship,  that  dead  love.  There  seemed  at  first  no 
real  connection  between  Roma's  cruel  letter  and 
Clive.  But  when  she  looked  again  at  the  closing  sen- 
tences she  saw  that  there  was  an  intimate  connection. 
Clive  knew  that  the  letter  was  to  be  sent  to  her;  he 
was  fully  informed  of  its  substance.  He  had  chosen 
this  cowardly  way  of  telling  her  that  his  own  love 
for  her  was  dead,  intimating  too  that  it  had  only 
been  the  product  of  her  own  unrestrained  and  undis- 
ciplined imagination.  Perhaps  he  had  never  told 
Roma  that  he  had  held  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed 
her,  and  whispered  words  of  passionate  love,  and 
asked  her  to  marry  him.  No,  he  would  be  little 
likely  to  tell  Roma  those  details.  He  had  succeeded 


366     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

in  throwing  the  blame  for  all  that  had  passed,  upon 
Sydney.  Roma  was  not  cruel  without  provocation. 
She  had  known  what  was  going  on,  and  she  had  re- 
solved to  punish  Sydney.  The  punishment  was  not 
wantonly  inflicted.  It  was  to  show  Sydney  that  she 
was  perfectly  aware  of  all  that  had  happened,  and  to 
put  an  end  forever  to  the  secret  engagement  whose 
existence  she  had  somehow  discovered. 

And  Clive?  What  part  had  Clive  played  in  it 
all?  Had  he  looked  on,  merely  nonchalant  and 
amused,  while  two  women  tore  each  other  to 
pieces  because  of  him?  In  any  case  he  would  have 
no  pity  for  Sydney,  who  had  caused  his  relations  to 
the  Cochranes  to  become  even  temporarily  strained. 
He  was  to  be  taught  "what  they  counted  for  in  his 
life."  No  doubt  by  this  time  he  had  learned  the 
lesson  accurately  and  in  a  way  that  he  would  be  little 
likely  to  forget.  In  any  case  he  would  have  no  pity 
for  Sydney,  although  possibly  he  might  cherish  some 
secret  resentment  against  her.  Perhaps  she  had 
ceased  to  exist  for  him  the  day  she  had  left 
the  Lido.  .  .  . 

For  that  was  the  day  the  real  darkness  had 
descended  upon  her.  From  thenceforth  she  had  al- 
ways experienced  dread  and  fear,  alternating  with 
wild  and  ever-unrealized  hopes.  The  long  slow  days 
that  she  had  spent  alone  in  Venice.  The  evening 
when  Roma  came,  torturing  her  with  questions 
whose  answers  she  already  perhaps  knew.  The 
ceaseless  waiting  for  Clive.  Her  journey  to  the 
Lido,  fruitless,  humiliating,  on  the  very  day  of  her 
departure  for  England.  Roma's  refusal  to  see  her. 
Ermelinda's  pitying  yet  half-contemptuous  glance. 
She  understood  it  now.  Gossip  had  no  doubt  perco- 
lated to  the  servants'  quarter. 

She  seemed  to  be  sitting  once  more  at  her  window, 
gazing  across  the  misty  lagoon  for  a  Clive  who 
never  came. 

But  in  the  confusion  of  those  days  she  had  never 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     367 

clearly  envisaged  the  change  that  had  come  over  her 
own  attitude  to  Roma.  She  had  still  loved  her — oh, 
surely  she  had  loved  her! — but  she  had  certainly 
begun  to  fear  her,  to  fear  that  very  power  of  attrac- 
tion, that  curious  glamor  which  had  first  drawn  her 
to  her  side  with  an  invisible,  irresistible  force.  She 
had  feared  her  .  .  .  because  of  Clive,  because  of 
her  influence  over  him.  And  all  the  time  Roma  had 
not  been  blind;  she  had  been  aware  of  the  little 
drama  played  behind  her  back  in  her  own  house. 
She  had  waited,  and  when  the  time  came  she  had 
struck  .  .  .  and  struck  hard. 

Sydney  was  still  reeling,  half-stunned  from  the 
impact  of  that  deliberate  well-directed  blow. 

The  break  with  Roma  meant  a  break  with  Clive. 
It  meant,  too,  that  all  these  months  of  her  life  in 
Venice  and  at  the  Lido  must  be  blotted  out  from  her 
mind  and  memory  as  if  they  had  never  been.  This 
broken  engagement  of  hers — this  broken  friendship 
that  had  once  seemed  such  a  rare  and  beautiful  thing 
— were  episodes  that  she  would  never  willingly  speak 
of.  Then  all  at  once  her  decision  was  made.  As  soon 
as  possible  she  would  return  to  Venice.  She  would 
not  submit  to  Roma's  cruel  and  callous  decree  of 
banishment.  She  would  return.  For  at  least  she 
had  a  right  to  see  Clive  again,  to  learn  the  truth  from 
his  own  lips.  He  must  give  her  some  explanation  of 
the  mystery  in  which  all  these  last  weeks  had  been 
so  heavily  wrapped.  She  had  a  right  to  know  why 
their  engagement  was  at  an  end.  It  had  been  a  con- 
crete thing  and  not  the  mere  product,  as  Roma  so 
cruelly  suggested,  of  her  own  imagination.  They 
should  not  thrust  her  out  into  the  darkness  and  down 
into  the  dust  like  this  without  a  word.  And  if  Clive 
did  not  love  her  any  more,  she  could  at  least  go  away 
and  die  quietly.  For  surely  she  could  not  live  after 
that.  f  Life  would  have  no  meaning  for  her  with- 
put  him. 


368     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

It  was  at  this  point  that  Sydney  bowed  her  head 
and  wept. 

There  was  one  blow  that  had  been  inflicted  that 
had  left  her  unscathed.  That  was  the  expression  of 
Moreton's  changed  opinion  of  her  talent.  She  had 
known  long  ago  that  he  had  ceased  to  "believe  in 
her,"  and  it  had  never  affected  her  at  all.  She  esti- 
mated her  own  powers  with  a  curious  accuracy,  and 
she  felt  that  her  estimate  was  a  truer  one  than  his. 
She  might  never  be  a  great  artist,  but  at  least  she 
was  an  artist  with  a  true  gift,  a  wide  vision,  a  techi- 
cal  skill  that  she  was  doing  her  best  to  improve.  It 
was  with  a  little  rush  of  renewed  pain  that  she  re- 
membered that  Clive  had  believed  in  her.  Even  in 
the  days  before  he  had  learned  to  care  for  her  he 
had  displayed  no  doubt  as  to  her  ability.  He  had 
admired  her  portrait  of  Roma,  even  when  Moreton 
had  decried  it.  She  clung  pathetically  to  the  poig- 
nant remembrance  of  his  praise. 

Yes,  she  would  go  back  and  learn  the  truth.  It 
could  not  hurt  her  more  than  she  had  already  been 
hurt,  and  it  might  conceivably  pour  some  little  balm 
upon  her  wounds.  Clive  had  been  compelled  to  yield 
to  Roma's  entreaties  that  he  should  give  up  Sydney, 
a  girl  quite  unworthy  of  him  and  who  was,  besides, 
bent  upon  becoming  a  Roman  Catholic.  Yes,  she 
could  picture  all  that  had  passed.  It  wasn't  Clive's 
doing  at  all.  He  was  weak — Roma  had  ruled  him 
too  long.  He  just  submitted.  It  was  Roma  who 
had  no  doubt  undertaken  to  "get  rid  of  her."  And 
then  she  remembered  Clive's  own  words,  spoken  with 
compassion  as  well  as  with  a  touch  of  scorn :  "You 
don't  know  your  Roma." 

Yes,  that  at  least  was  quite  true.  She  had  never 
known  Roma.  That  Roma  she  had  loved  and 
adored  with  a  young  girl's  trembling  worship  had 
never  existed  at  all. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

AT  dinner  that  night  Sydney  was  alone  with  her 
mother,  who  had  brought  back  a  much  better 
report  of  Moira,  and  was  therefore  in  a  more  ob- 
servant mood. 

She  said  suddenly  to  Sydney: 

"Is  there  anything  the  matter,  Sydney?  You  are 
looking  very  pale." 

Sydney  answered  slowly:  "I've  heard  bad  news 
from  Venice.  Moreton  Cochrane  is  dead." 

"Dead?"  repeated  Lady  Flood.  "And  not  at  all 
an  old  man !  Less  than  sixty,  I  should  say." 

"He  was  fifty-eight,"  said  Sydney,  "but  of  course 
he's  been  very  ill  lately  with  his  heart.  I  had  a  letter 
from  Roma,  too,  sent  before  his  death,  telling  me 
that  they  had  very  little  hope." 

There  was  a  short  silence,  and  then  Lady 
Flood  said: 

"He  looked  quite  a  strong  sort  of  man  that  day 
he  was  here.  Rather  vigorous  than  otherwise. 
Does  she  want  you  to  go  to  her?" 

"Oh  no !"  said  Sydney.  There  was  certainly  noth- 
ing further  from  Roma's  thoughts  than  any  wish 
of  that  sort.  What  were  her  exact  words?  You 
will  hate  me  for  speaking  the  truth  and  for  thus  put- 
ting an  end  to  all  Intercourse  between  us.  .  .  .  Yes, 
they  were  quite  clear,  quite  final.  Roma  never 
wished  to  see  her  again.  She  forced  back  the  tears 
that  were  threatening  to  spring  into  her  eyes. 

"Judging  from  what  I  saw  of  Mrs.  Cochrane,  I 
should  nardly  imagine  that  she  would  be  broken- 
hearted," observed  Lady  Flood. 

369 


370     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

Yea,  that  also  was  probably  quite  true.  Roma 
had  been  a  devoted  wife;  she  nad  been  fond  of 
Moreton  as  far  as  she  was  capable  of  being  fond  of 
any  one.  She  had  liked  the  kind  of  life  that  he  was 
able  to  give  her,  and  the  money  that  he  poured  out 
so  lavishly  upon  her.  Roma  liked  to  have  plenty  of 
money;  she  spent  it  royally,  for  she  was  both  ex- 
travagant and  generous,  a  combination  that  is  less 
frequent  than  is  generally  supposed.  And  all  that 
perfection  of  hers  had  been  Moreton's  continual  de- 
light. Her  exquisite  clothes  and  jewels,  her  beauti- 
ful artistic  houses,  were  the  gifts  he  could  bestow 
upon  her  so  that  everything  about  her  should  be 
flawless,  and  should  add  to  the  perfection  of  her 
beauty. 

"I've  been  wanting  to  speak  to  you  about  Venice," 
said  Lady  Flood  suddenly;  "of  course  you're  not 
thinking  of  going  back  there  now?" 

She  seemed  to  speak  with  the  energy  of  carefully 
simulated  courage. 

"Of  course  I  have  been  thinking  of  it,  Mamma. 
I  have  been  planning  to  go,  directly  Moira  got 
better." 

"You've  already  wasted  a  good  many  months 
there.  I  should  have  thought  by,now  you  must  have 
seen  how  useless  it  was !" 

"Useless?"  In  the  face  of  this  frontal  attack 
Sydney  felt  limp  and  helpless.  She  was  nervous  and 
unstrung,  and  longing  for  solitude  where  she  could 
hide  her  misery  from  observant  eyes. 

"Well,  I  mean  you  must  see  that  you're  not  going 
to  take  the  world  by  storm.  Mr.  Cochrane  flattered 
you,  and,  like  an  inexperienced  little  school-girl,  you 
accepted  it  all  quite  seriously.  But  now  I  think  it 
would  be  far  wiser  for  you  to  stay  here.  You  shall 
have  leisure  in  which  to  work."  This  was  a  very 
remarkable  concession,  as  Sydney  was  fully  aware, 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     371 

nevertheless  it  failed  to  tempt  her.  She  must  go 
back.  Venice  was  calling  to  her.  .  .  . 

"It's  very  kind  of  you  to  want  me  here,  Mamma, 
but  I  do  really  feel  I  ought  to  go  back."  Her  tone 
was  piteous. 

"I  hoped,"  said  Lady  Flood,  playing  her  last 
card,  "that  you  might  perhaps  reconsider  a  marriage 
with  Duncan  Turner.  He  assures  me  that  he  has  not 
changed  in  the  slightest  degree  except  to  become 
more  devoted  to  you." 

"I  shall  never  marry  Duncan,"  said  Sydney,  in  a 
final  tone. 

She  had  had  a  glimpse  that  day  of  his  iron  will. 
And  although  in  the  end  she  had  thanked  him,  there 
had  been  something  of  the  "kissing-the-rod"  attitude 
in  those  thanks.  But  both  he  and  Father  John 
seemed  a  long  way  off  now.  She  had  other  sterner 
things  to  think  of.  Things  that  must  be  accom- 
plished first.  She  hardened  her  heart  against  all 
these  good  kind  people  who  would  have  kept  her  in 
England. 

"I  hope  there  is  no  one  else?"  said  Lady  Flood, 
who  had  long  had  her  suspicions  on  the  subject; 
"you  did  not  have  any  foolish  flirtations  while  you 
were  in  Venice?  You  aren't  engaged  to  any  one 
there?" 

There  was  a  kind  of  crescendo  of  anxiety  in 
her  tone. 

Sydney  was  so  pale  that  she  looked  as  if  all  the 
color  had  been  washed  out  of  her  face. 

"I  am  .  .  .  not  engaged,"  she  said,  and  there  was 
such  a  lump  in  her  throat  that  it  seemed  to  close? 
upon  the  words.  When  she  had  said  it  she  felt 
as  if  she  had  lied.  But,  no — -it  was  quite  true. 
Clive  had  been  accessory  to  the  writing  of  that  let- 
ter. It  was  to  show  her  that  everything  between 
them  was  at  an  end.  That  engagement,  they  would 


372     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

now  have  her  understand,  had  been  but  the  product 
of  her  own  unrestrained,  undisciplined  imagination. 
She  would  have  to  keep  the  secret  of  it  until  the 
end  of  her  life.  She  loved  Clive  far  too  well  ever 
to  tell  the  truth  to  a  living  soul.  He  must  have 
known  that,  and  thus  he  had  not  feared  to  lie  to 
Roma.  But  he  had  seen  the  folly,  the  madness  of 
such  an  engagement,  and  he  had  chosen  the  quickest, 
the  most  efficacious  means  of  getting  rid  of  her. 

Lady  Flood  asked  no  more  questions.  It  was 
useless  to  try  to  obtain  any  information  from  Syd- 
ney; she  had  always  been  obstinately  reserved.  Even 
as  a  child,  threats  had  to  be  used  to  induce  her  to 
speak. 

Still,  it  was  a  little  difficult  to  understand  why 
Sydney  should  look  so  terribly  upset  because  More- 
ton  Cochrane  was  dead.  She  never  seemed  to  have 
liked  him  particularly;  it  was  Roma  who  from  the 
first  had  attracted  her  so  powerfully.  There  was 
a  mystery  about  the  whole  business  which  intrigued 
Lady  Flood.  She  wondered  if  Duncan  knew  any- 
thing. But  then  he  was  the  least  curious  of  men. 
If  he  wished  to  learn  the  precise  nature  of  the  dis- 
aster that  had  overtaken  Sydney  in  Venice,  it  would 
simply  be  in  order  that  he  might  assist  her  to  ex- 
tricate herself  from  it.  When  Lady  Flood  looked 
at  her  daughter  and  saw  her  pallor,  her  deplorable 
thinness,  her  nervous  sleepless  appearance,  she  felt 
that  she  had  used  the  word  disaster  advisedly.  But 
it  was  not  one  that  she  ventured  to  utter  aloud. 

When  the  evening  papers  were  brought  in,  they 
all  proved  to  contain  obituary  notices  of  Moreton 
Cochrane.  Moreton  Cochrane,  the  eminent  art- 
critic,  had  died  at  his  villa  on  the  Lido  at  the  age 
of  fifty-eight  years.  Some  of  the  notices  were  ex- 
tremely eulogistic;  others,  evidently  written  by  men 
of  the  younger  generation,  were  frankly  derisive. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     373 

To  some,  Moreton  had  been  a  brilliant  and  sound 
critic,  possessing  unusual  flair  combined  with  a  sin- 
gularly wise  and  broad  judgment.  To  others,  he 
had  appeared  only  as  a  dilettante  with  a  shallow 
but  successful  talent  for  judging  pictures.  One  or 
two  old  but  rather  significant  mistakes  were  brought 
up  against  him  by  these  irreverent  youthful  persons. 
Some  of  the  papers  remembered  to  add  that  he  had 
married  just  eleven  years  ago  Roma,  only  child  of 
the  late  Montgomery  West.  There  were  no  chil- 
dren of  the  marriage.  Visitors  to  last  year's  Salon 
would  no  doubt  remember  the  very  remarkable  por- 
trait of  Mrs.  Cochrane  which  had  made  the  name 
of  a  young  French  artist.  It  was  considered  by 
competent  judges  to  have  been  one  of  the  most  beau- 
tiful portraits  done  in  recent  years.  .  .  . 

"I  had  no  idea  he  was  so  celebrated,"  said  Lady 
Flood  dryly.  She  was  decidedly  impressed  by  the 
number  and  length  of  the  notices.  Mr.  Cochrane 
had  evidently  been  a  person  of  great  importance  in 
his  own  line.  Still,  she  had  never  liked  either  him 
or  his  wife.  She  was  glad  to  think  that  Sydney 
was  removed  from  their  influence.  It  was  absurd 
— this  talk  of  going  back ! 

Sydney  made  her  plans  very  cautiously.  First, 
she  wrote  to  Father  John  to  tell  him  that  for  the 
present  she  could  not  commence  her  instruction.  She 
gave  no  reason,  and  was  too  proud  to  ask  him  not 
to  mention  her  decision  to  Duncan.  Let  Duncan 
find  out  what  he  could,  but  she  did  not  in  her  heart 
believe  that  he  would  learn  anything  from  Father 
John.  The  next  thing  to  be  done  was  to  try  to 
sell  some  of  her  Venice  drawings,  in  order  to  be 
able  to  pay  for  her  journey.  This  was  especially 
important,  as  Lady  Flood  had  not  refunded  the  sum 
she  had  spent  on  her  journey  home. 


374     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

She  took  out  some  half-dozen  sketches.  In  the 
gray  light  of  London  with  its  confused  and  misty 
outlines  the  brilliant  coloring  and  sharp  precision  of 
these  drawings  seemed  almost  exaggerated.  The 
only  one  that  really  satisfied  her  was  the  pearly  Dawn 
on  the  Lagoon,  with  its  delicate  violets  and  grays 
and  subdued  silvers,  and  the  campanile  of  San  Gi- 
orgio rising  faintly  rose-colored  abruptly  from  the 
pale  water.  She  lingered  a  little  over  them,  hat- 
ing to  part  with  them,  for  they  were  most  inti- 
mately her  own,  and  she  disliked  to  think  of  strang- 
ers handling  them.  But  at  last  she  wrapped  them 
up  and  set  forth  on  her  quest.  She  made  up  her 
mind  to  consult  a  dealer  whose  name  she  had  often 
heard  Moreton  mention. 

It  was  an  uncomfortable  moment  for  Sydney  when 
she  found  herself  in  a  kind  of  office  at  the  back  of 
the  shop,  proffering  her  wares  to  an  elderly,  shrewd- 
looking  person  of  pronouncedly  Semitic  type.  He 
turned  over  the  drawings  carelessly,  almost  contemp- 
tuously, putting  his  face  down  extremely  close  to 
them  as  if  he  were  very  short-sighted  indeed.  But 
he  gazed  longest  and  closest  at  Dawn  on  the 
Laaoon. 

I'll  give  you  ten  pounds  for  that  one,"  he  said 
at  last,  brushing  the  rest  away  with  his  hand  with 
a  gesture  of  disdain. 

Sydney  was  startled.  But  she  was  not  going  to 
sell  her  drawing  for  what  she  considered  a  paltry 
sum. 

"Twenty-five,"  she  said  firmly.  "I've  had  fifty 
for  a  drawing  before  now." 

The  man  looked  at  her  with  some  curiosity. 
When  she  first  came  in  she  had  given  him  the  im- 
pression that  she  was  very  young  indeed,  almost  a 
child.  With  her  short  skirts  and  bobbed  hair  it 
was  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at.  But  now  that  he 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     375 

bestowed  a  more  intent  glance  upon  her  he  be- 
came aware  of  the  firmness  of  purpose  in  her 
face. 

"Some  friend  must  have  given  it  to  you  then," 
he  observed  succinctly;  "you  never  got  fifty  pounds 
over  the  counter  for  work  like  that."  And  his 
cigarette-stained  fingers  flicked  at  Dawn  on  the 
Lagoon  with  something  of  contempt.  Sydney  kept 
her  temper  with  difficulty.  All  the  time  she  was 
thinking:  "I  must  have  twenty-five.  It'll  take  me 
back  to  Venice.  ...  1  shall  see  Clive  and  he'll  tell 
me  the  truth.  After  that  it  won't  matter." 

She  gathered  up  the  drawings  and  was  begin- 
ning to  wrap  them  in  paper  again  when  the  man 
said:  "You'll  never  get  twenty-five  for  that  little 
sketch.  It  isn't  as  if  you  had  a  name.  When  you 
haven't  got  a  name  you're  paid  by  size.  You'd  bet- 
ter let  me  have  it  for  ten  pounds." 

"I'm  not  going  to  sell  it  for  less  than  twenty- 
five.  I  will  take  it  elsewhere,"  said  Sydney  firmly. 
She  disliked  now  the  thought  of  selling  it  to  this 
man  with  his  veiled  insolence,  his  contempt  for  her 
work. 

She  had  got  as  far  as  the  door  when  he  came 
after  her. 

"I've  a  customer  who  likes  drawings  of  Italy — • 
especially  of  Venice,"  he  said.  "But  he  don't  give 
fancy  prices  unless  there's  a  name  to  it.  I  take  it 
you're  about  at  the  beginning,  aren't  you?  Not  but 
that  it  is  a  nice,  clever  little  bit  of  color.  I'll  have 
another  look  at  it,  if  you  please." 

Sydney  came  back  reluctantly  and  opened  her  par- 
cel once  more.  This  selling  business  was  odious, 
even  humiliating,  but  she  would  have  endured  worse 
things  than  that  to  enable  her  to  return  to  Clive. 
When  she  thought  of  that  meeting  a  great  hope 
welled  up  in  her  heart  like  a  spring.  Despite 


376     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

Roma's  letter  she  could  not  renounce  her  faith  in 
Clive. 

It  was  an  attempt  of  Roma's  to  keep  them  apart. 
She,  Sydney,  was  not  going  to  fall  into  the  trap. 
She  must  learn  from  dive's  own  lips  that  he  had 
ceased  to  love  her.  .  .  . 

"Well,  I  suppose  I  must  give  you  twenty-five  for 
it,"  said  the  man,  screwing  up  one  eye  and  survey- 
ing the  sketch  through  the  other.  • 

He  pulled  open  a  drawer,  and  began  to  occupy 
himself  with  writing  a  check. 

"Name?"  he  inquired. 

"Miss  Sydney  Flood." 

"Well,  Miss  Flood,  we  shall  be  hearing  of  you 
one  of  these  days,  I  daresay,"  he  remarked,  care- 
fully blotting  the  slip  of  paper. 

Sydney  made  no  reply.  His  patronizing  tone  was 
extremely  distasteful  to  her.  She  longed  for  the 
interview  to  come  to  an  end. 

"You'd  better  leave  me  your  address.  My  cus- 
tomer might  ask  to  see  some  more  stuff  of  yours," 
he  remarked. 

Sydney  handed  him  her  card  and  put  the  check 
into  her  purse.  Then  with  a  stiff,  "Thank  you. 
Good-morning,"  she  went  out  of  the  shop. 

The  money  would  take  her  back  to  Venice,  and 
she  intended  to  start  as  soon  as  possible.  Her  face, 
as  she  walked  along  the  street,  was  stern  with  pur- 
pose. To  those  who  looked  close  it  was  the  face 
of  a  woman  who  had  been  most  cruelly  hurt. 

It  was  on  the  following  afternoon  that  a  note 
came  from  the  dealer  inviting  her  to  bring  some 
more  sketches  for  inspection.  His  customer  had 
bought  Dawn  on  the  Lagoon,  and  if  she  had  any 
other  water-colors  of  a  similar  type  it  would  interest 
him  to  see  them.  There  was  just  time  to  go  round 
before  tea,  and  Sydney  immediately  packed  up  the 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     377 

remainder  of  her  sketches.  There  were  about  ten 
of  them  in  all,  and  even  if  they  were  less  good  than 
the  one  she  had  sold,  they  at  least  possessed  some- 
thing of  the  atmosphere  of  Venice.  The  high  sharp 
tones,  the  cool  shadows,  the  explicit  outlines  .  .  . 
she  had  studied  and  absorbed  those  effects,  before 
she  had  ever  put  brush  to  paper,  with  eyes  trained 
to  be  observant  and  accurate  as  well  as  imaginative. 

The  dealer  was  in  a  far  more  polite  mood  that 
afternoon.  He  seemed  perfectly  satisfied  with  the 
"stuff"  Sydney  had  brought  to  him.  That  one  of 
the  Lido,  for  instance,  with  its  glowing  golden  sands, 
its  bright  blue  sea  and  sky,  the  beautiful  and  char- 
acteristic sails  of  the  fishing  boats,  especially  pleased 
him.  "He's  pretty  sure  to  buy  that,"  he  com- 
mented. 

He  could  not  give  the  name  of  his  client  without 
first  asking  permission.  But  he  might  mention  that 
he  was  a  very  wealthy  gentleman  with  a  great  love 
for  Italy.  He  thought  Dawn  on  the  Lagoon  quite 
extraordinarily  clever,  true  and  brilliant  and  passion- 
ate. He  had  expressed  surprise  that  it  had  never 
been  exhibited.  He  had  referred  to  her  always  as 
Mr.  Flood,  imagining  from  her  Christian  name  that 
the  artist  was  a  man.  "Judged  you  to  be  quite  young 
and  unusually  promising,  with  a  rare  quality  of  vi- 
sion," said  the  dealer,  to  whom  these  things  were 
of  value  only  because  they  were  marketable  com- 
modities. 

But  Sydney  flushed  under  the  praise.  It  seemed 
to  her  the  most  genuine  and  impartial  criticism  she 
had  ever  received.  It  was  neither  the  patronizing 
praise  bestowed  as  an  encouragement,  nor  the  cen- 
sure prompted  by  a  desire  to  snub,  which  had  hith- 
erto been  her  portion.  Her  work  had  been  judged 
on  its  own  merits  quite  apart  from  herself,  indeed 
it  had  been  held  to  be  the  production  of  a  man. 


378     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

All  these  months  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  been 
working  blindly,  feverishly,  asking  herself  continu- 
ally: "Is  it  worth  while?  Am  I  any  good?"  Now 
the  praise  of  this  unknown  critic  answered  these 
questions,  and  stirred  within  her  the  old  ambition 
that  Clive's  love  seemed  to  have  quenched,  as  if  no 
other  emotion  could  exist  side  by  side  with  it. 

A  couple  of  days  later  she  received  a  very  sub- 
stantial check  for  six  of  the  drawings.  The  re- 
mainder were  returned  to  her.  At  least  now  she 
had  plenty  of  money  for  her  journey  to  Italy,  nor 
need  she  fear  starvation  when  she  got  there.  She 
would  see  Clive,  just  once,  learn  the  truth  from  him, 
and  then,  if  need  be,  she  would  go  away  quietly  and 
work.  And  in  time  her  work  would  teach  her  to 
forget.  She  had  a  firm  belief  in  it  as  an  anodyne. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

SOME  weeks  had  passed,  and  Moira  was  now  so 
far  recovered  that  Lady  Flood  was  planning  to 
take  her  to  Bournemouth.  The  doctor  recom- 
mended change.  The  day  of  departure  was  fixed, 
and  still  Sydney  had  said  no  word  to  her  mother 
or  to  Duncan  about  her  intended  return  to  Venice. 
Indeed,  Lady  Flood  was  so  preoccupied  with  the 
thought  of  taking  Moira  away  to  the  seaside  that 
she  did  not  question  Sydney,  but  took  it  for  granted 
that  she  would  spend  the  weeks  of  their  absence  in 
London.  Once  she  even  tentatively  suggested  that 
Sydney  should  accompany  them,  but  the  girl  made 
some  slight  excuse. 

It  was  the  evening  before  Lady  Flood's  departure 
for  Bournemouth.  She  and  Sydney  were  at  dinner, 
and  Duncan  was  with  them.  Upstairs  Sydney's 
ticket  and  passport  reposed  in  readiness;  she  in- 
tended to  leave  on  the  morning  following  her  moth- 
er's departure.  She  would  write  a  note  telling  her 
that  she  was  gofng.  It  was  easier  to  write  than 
to  speak.  She  was  only  terrified  lest  at  the  last  mo- 
ment some  one  should  step  in  and  stop  her. 

She  was  alone  with  Duncan  for  a  few  minutes 
after  dinner,  when  Lady  Flood  was  called  away  to 
the  telephone.    Duncan  looked  at  her  and  said: 
"So  the  bird  is  preparing  to  fly?" 
Sydney  flushed.     "How  do  you  know?" 
"My   dear,    I've    known   it   I   think    for    ages. 
You've  been  waiting  your  opportunity,  haven't  you?" 
"Don't  tell  Mamma,"  pleaded  Sydney  piteously. 

379 


380     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

Duncan  was  hurt. 

"When  will  you  learn  to  trust  me?" 

"I  sometimes  feel  that  you  are  in  league  with 
Mamma,"  said  Sydney. 

"I'm  only  in  league  with  her  in  so  far  as  we  both 
ardently  wish  to  secure  your  ultimate  happiness." 

"I'm  not  happy  here.  You  must  see  that.  1  was 
happy  in  Venice!' 

'Were  you?"  he  said,  but  his  ironical  glance  was 
slightly  incredulous.  "I  must  take  your  word  for 
it,  then.  May  I  ask  what  you're  going  to  do  about 
Father  John?" 

"I've  written  to  explain  things  to  him.  He'll 
understand." 

"You  haven't" — and  here  he  was  aware  he  was 
treading  on  delicate  ground — "you  haven't  given  up 
the  idea  of  becoming  a  Catholic?" 

"Of  course  I  haven't.  Probably  I  shall  be  re- 
ceived abroad." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  go,  Sydney,"  said  Duncan 
with  sudden  seriousness;  "I've  an  idea  there's  a  very 
bad  quarter  of  an  hour  waiting  for  you  in  Venice." 

She  said  quickly:  "What  makes  you  think  that?" 

"Well,  I  feel  for  one  thing  that  you  are  going 
there  against  your  own  better  judgment." 

It  was  quite  true.  But  she  disliked  to  hear  it 
put  into  words.  If  she  were,  for  instance,  to  see 
Roma  instead  of  Clive,  there  would  be  a  very  bad 
quarter  of  an  hour  indeed. 

"And  now  that  Moreton's  dead,  his  wife  will  be 
in  deep  mourning,  and  probably  she  won't  go  any- 
where or  receive  visitors.  I  shouldn't  like  you  to 
feel  that  you  weren't  wanted — by  Mrs.  Cochrane  !" 
There  was  a  little  disdain  in  his  voice. 

"You  never  liked  her.  .  .  .  You  don't  under- 
stand," said  Sydney. 

It  was  horrible  to  think  that  Duncan  should  not 
only  have  divined  her  intention,  but  that  he  should 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     381 

also  have  laid  his  finger  so  unerringly  upon  the  very 
misgivings  that  were  assailing  her. 

"Have  you  enough  money  for  your  journey?"  he 
inquired.  "Traveling  costs  a  lot,  and  the  trains  are 
so  crowded  now,  you  can't  go  second  class." 

Sydney  flushed  a  little.  "You  needn't  be  anxious 
about  that.  I've  plenty  of  money." 

Duncan  was  secretly  astonished,  and  in  his  as- 
tonishment there  was  an  anxiety  which  he  could  not 
immediately  allay.  Were  these  people  actually  pay- 
ing for  her  journey  in  order  that  she  might  return 
to  them?  What  was  their  influence  over  her?  He 
set  aside  these  thoughts  as  unworthy,  yet  he  could 
not  but  realize  the  sinister  effect  of  that  influence. 
It  was  only  when  she  had  apparently  forgotten  them 
a  little,  had  turned  her  thoughts  to  becoming  a  Cath- 
olic, that  she  had  seemed  in  the  least  like  the  old 
normal  Sydney. 

Once  Lady  Flood  had  said  to  him :  "I'm  not  really 
afraid  that  she'll  go  off  suddenly  without  telling  me. 
To  begin  with,  she  hasn't  the  money — I've  been  care- 
ful not  to  give  her  any." 

It  was  only  natural  that  he  should  wonder,  there- 
fore, where  the  money  had  come  from.  So  he  was 
intensely  relieved  when  after  a  slight  pause  Sydney 
said: 

"You  see,  I've  been  able  to  sell  seven  of  those 
sketches  I  brought  back.  They — they  paid  pretty 
well  for  them." 

"They?"  said  Duncan. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  the  man's  name.  I  sold  them 
through  a  dealer,"  explained  Sydney.  "They  think 
I'm  a  man  when  they  see  the  name  Sydney  Flood!" 

She  laughed,  and  Duncan,  relieved,  was  able  to 
join  in  her  laughter. 

"You  won't  go  without  telling  me,  will  you  ?"  he 
said  at  last.  "I  am  so  very  fond  of  you,  Sydney, 
that  it  gives  me  a  kind  of  right — a  sort  of  brotherly 


382     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

right,  since  you  won't  hear  of  anything  else.  I 
should  like  to  come  and  see  you  off." 

"Very  well,  Duncan.  If  you  come  in  to-morrow 
afternoon  after  Mamma's  gone,  I  will  tell  you." 

"But  you  know  1  think  it's  awfully  wrong  of  you 
to  go  without  telling  your  mother." 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  she  would  try  to  prevent  me, 
and  I  can't  risk  that.  You  can't  think  how  much 
against  it  they  all  are — Mamma  and  Moira  and 
Wanley.  They  were  talking  about  it  only  yesterday." 

"  'In  the  multitude  of  counselors,'  "  quoted  Dun- 
can dryly. 

"No,"  she  said  firmly,  "I  know  best  about  this. 
I  must  go." 

Lady  Flood  came  back  into  the  room. 

"We  shall  be  leaving  early,"  she  said,  "about 
eleven  o'clock.  There's  to  be  a  motor-ambulance. 
I  do  hope  the  dear  child  will  bear  the  journey  well." 

"Is  there  anything  I  can  do?"  said  Duncan. 

"No — I  don't  think  so,  thank  you,"  said  Lady 
Flood. 

She  liked  to  think  that  this  serious,  reliable  young 
man  was  always  at  hand  eager  and  ready  to  proffer 
assistance.  He  had  won  a  place  in  the  regard  of 
the  whole  family.  Already  Wanley  was  fond  of 
him,  and  had  been  heard  to  express  a  wish  that  he 
and  Sydney  "would  make  it  up."  Duncan's  wel- 
come as  an  "in-law"  was  prepared  and  waiting  for 
him.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  it  could  not  yet  be 
bestowed. 

His  heart  sank  when  he  thought  of  Sydney's  ob- 
stinacy in  making  this  second  journey.  And  she 
looked  so  miserable — so  unfit  to  go  alone,  and  per- 
haps have  a  "thin"  time  when  she  got  there. 

"I  should  like  to  speak  to  Roma  Cochrane  for 
five  minutes  alone,"  he  thought  to  himself  as  he 
walked  home  that  night.  "1  think  I  could  say  all 
I  want  to  in  five  minutes." 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     383 

Lady  Flood  departed  for  Bournemouth  on  the  fol- 
lowing day  without  a  single  qualm  of  anxiety  on 
Sydney's  account.  She  had  kissed  her  affectionately 
at  parting;  and  promises  to  write  very  soon  had 
been  made  on  both  sides. 

When  her  mother  had  gone,  Sydney  went  up  to 
her  room  to  make  her  final  preparations.  She  would 
have  to  leave  the  house  before  seven  o'clock  on  the 
following  morning,  and  she  thought  she  would  ask 
Duncan  to  come  and  help  her.  He  could  bring  a 
taxi;  one  could  not  always  find  one  at  that  early 
hour.  She  must  tell  Wright  to  put  some  coffee  in 
the  dining-room  for  her  at  half-past  six. 

The  prospect  of  the  journey  excited  her.  Now 
that  it  was  drawing  so  near,  much  of  her  anxiety 
seemed  to  leave  her.  She  was  so  sure  that  it  would 
be  all  right — that  she  only  needed  to  see  Clive 
again,  and  everything  would  be  once  more  smooth 
between  them.  It  was  Roma  who  had  planned  and 
plotted  to  separate  them.  Had  not  Clive  once 
begged  her  not  to  lose  her  faith  in  him,  however 
much  circumstances  might  appear  to  be  against  him  ? 
Those  words  recurring  to  her  now  had  a  comforting, 
tranquilizing  effect  upon  her. 

Roma  had  told  her  in  her  letter  that  the  whole 
episode  had  been  but  the  product  of  her  own  imagi- 
nation. Nevertheless,  Sydney  felt  assured  that  Mrs. 
Cochrane  must  have  known  something  of  dive's 
divided  loyalty.  She  must  have  regarded  Sydney 
in  some  sort  as  a  rival,  even  if  she  knew  nothing  of 
the  actual  truth.  But  the  conflict  had  changed  since 
Moreton's  death.  Roma  was  a  free  woman  now, 
and  if  she  chose,  she  could  bind  Clive  to  her  by 
lasting  ties.  She  did  not  love  him — -of  that  Sydney 
felt  convinced — but  she  would  allow  no  other  woman 
to  possess  him.  He  was  the  younger  of  the  two, 
and  for  a  long  time  Roma  had  ruled  him.  With 
Moreton  she  had  kept  him  closely  chained. 


384     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

The  November  morning  was  bitterly  cold;  there 
was  a  frost,  which  had  produced  a  slight  but  disa- 
greeable fog  that  blotted  out  everything  that  was 
not  quite  close  at  hand.  Perhaps  there  would  be  a 
fog,  too,  in  the  Channel.  That  would  be  very  tire- 
some, and  mean  additional  delay.  She  was  to  sleep 
in  Paris  that  night,  and  continue  her  journey  to 
Venice  on  the  following  day. 

Duncan  appeared,  punctual  to  the  moment,  his 
dark  face  slightly  reddened  by  the  contact  with  the 
bleak  air.  He  accompanied  Sydney  to  the  station, 
saying  little  on  the  way,  and  making  a  studious  en- 
deavor not  to  appear  in  the  least  disapproving.  It 
was  too  late  to  play  the  part  of  the  disinterested 
adviser,  since  Sydney  neither  asked  nor  required 
counsel.  She  was  quite  as  obstinately  bent  upon  this 
second  journey  as  she  had  ever  been  on  the  first. 
If  her  courage  was  failing  her  at  all,  she  gave  no 
sign  of  it.  She  was  calm,  composed,  pale,  very 
resolute,  with  shining  eyes  and  set  mouth,  her  de- 
termined expression  being  singularly  at  variance  with 
her  childish  appearance. 

"I  hope  you'll  bring  back  some  more  delicious 
water-colors,"  he  did  manage  to  say  once,  feeling 
that  the  silence  was  becoming  almost  more  than  he 
could  bear. 

"I  shall  have  to  try  and  sell  what  the  dealer  calls 
my  'stuff'  if  I'm  to  live,"  she  answered.  "So  I  hope 
not  to  bring  a  great  deal  back  with  me,  if  I  ever  do 
come.  I  don't  fancy  Mamma  will  be  so  easy  to 
propitiate  this  time,"  and  she  smiled. 

Duncan's  face  was  perfectly  grave.  He  had  an 
immense  sympathy  for  Lady  Flood,  and  he  sincerely 
hoped  that  she  would  not  blame  him  for  conniving 
at  Sydney's  departure.  Last  spring  he  had  felt  a 
great  sympathy  for  Sydney  when  she  struck  that 
blow  in  the  cause  of  her  own  freedom.  But  since 
then,  he  had  learnt  to  like  and  appreciate  her  mother. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     385 

He  was  beginning  to  think  there  was  something 
to  be  said,  after  all,  for  the  steady,  home-loving, 
reliable  Victorian  woman. 

"You  can  hardly  blame  her  if  she  isn't,"  he  said, 
after  a  moment's  pause.  He  realized,  as  he  spoke, 
that  he  must  really  love  Sydney  very  much  indeed 
to  be  able  to  forgive  her  this  second  escapade.  The 
other  had  been  simple  enough  to  understand;  she 
had  been  swept  off  her  feet  by  the  charm  and  beauty 
of  Mrs.  Cochrane,  by  the  skillful  flattery  bestowed 
upon  her  work.  But  this  second  journey  was  much 
less  easy  to  understand.  She  was  flying  in  the  face 
of  every  one's  advice,  and  there  was  no  reason  to 
believe  that  the  slightest  pressure  was  being  applied 
this  time  from  the  Cochrane  side.  And  if  they 
didn't  want  her,  why  in  Heaven's  name  was  she  go- 
ing back  there,  precipitately,  almost  secretly?  These 
problems  were  difficult  of  solution,  and  Duncan's  un- 
easiness concerning  them  had  long  ago  led  him  to 
suspect  the  "young  Apollo"  of  having  something 
extremely  definite  to  do  with  the  step  Sydney  was 
about  to  take.  Most  probably  she  was  in  love  with 
him,  but  then  she  certainly  did  not  look  in  the  least 
like  a  woman  who  was  engaged  in  a  successful  love- 
affair.  Everything  rather  pointed  to  the  contrary. 
And  if  this  man  didn't  love  her,  why  was  she  going 
back  to  be  shamed  and  perhaps  humbled  by  a  chill- 
ing reception  ?  This  thought  disturbed  Duncan  most 
of  all.  His  queen,  who  should  have  been  raised  so 
high,  to  love  or  fancy  that  she  loved  unavailingly ! 
He  glanced  at  the  slight,  composed  figure  by  his 
side.  He  longed  to  take  her  roughly  in  his  arms 
and  tell  her  that  he  would  not  let  her  go.  But 
the  risk  was  too  great.  Sydney  might  have  yielded, 
but  on  the  other  hand  she  might  never  have  for- 
given him.  Duncan  folded  his  arms  and  looked  out 
of  the  window.  The  fog  disclosed  nothing  more 
illuminating  than  a  straight  line  of  rather  shabby 


386     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

railings.  He  did  not  know  in  the  least  where  they 
were. 

"Oh,  you  haven't  given  me  your  address  in 
Venice,"  he  suddenly  reminded  her. 

Sydney  took  out  a  card  and  gave  it  to  him.  She 
had  written  the  address  upon  it  just  below  her  name. 
Duncan  glanced  at  it  and  put  it  in  his  pocket.  Even 
the  possession  of  this  struck  him  as  in  some  sense 
a  safeguard.  She  might  so  easily  have  refused 
to  give  it  or  hampered  the  bestowal  with  condi- 
tions. 

Now  they  had  reached  Victoria  station,  and  the 
real  business  of  the  day  began.  Although  they  were 
very  early,  an  immense  number  of  intending  passen- 
gers had  already  assembled  there.  To  his  relief 
Duncan  found  that  Sydney  was  going  to  travel  first- 
class,  he  had  been  half  afraid  that  she  would  econo- 
mize over  that  part.  He  did  not  realize  that  her 
sole  aim  was  to  get  to  Venice  as  quickly  as  possible, 
and  to  insure  this  she  was  going  to  travel  by  the 
train-de-luxe  from  Paris.  Having  seen  her  into  a 
compartment  with  several  other  heavily-enveloped 
women,  .he  stood  on  the  platform  outside  close  to  her 
window.  He  did  not  find  much  to  say.  Sydney 
seemed  so  utterly  careless  of  the  hurt  she  was  in- 
flicting upon  him;  he  did  not  even  think  that  she 
realized  it.  That  strange  concentration  of  hers — 
always  perhaps  rather  a  cruel,  relentless  thing — was 
completely  occupied  by  the  thought  of  going  to 
Venice.  She  was  probably  not  thinking  of  him  at 
all,  unless  she  felt  perhaps  a  vague  sense  of  grati- 
tude for  the  slight  help  he  had  been  able  to  offer. 
Very  soon  she  would  be  miles  away  from  him.  He 
wished  he  had  thought  of  traveling  to  Folkestone 
with  her.  This  going  away  of  hers  was  a  thou- 
sand times  worse  than  the  last.  At  least,  then  she 
had  been  traveling  under  the  care  of  the  Cochranes. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     387 

He  bought  some  illustrated  papers  and  gave  them 
to  her. 

"And  you've  got  things  to  eat  and  drink,  I  hope?" 

"Oh,  yes.  Biscuits  and  chocolate,"  said  Sydney, 
cheerfully. 

"And  you'll  write?  1  shall  want  to  hear  how  you 
get  on." 

"Yes.  I'll  be  sure  to  write.  And,  Duncan,  would 
you  mind  posting  this  letter  to  Mamma?" 

She  put  it  into  his  hand  with  a  smile  of  confi- 
dence. Duncan  accepted  it  with  rather  a  rueful  air. 

"You're  determined  to  make  me  an  accessory  after 
the  crime,"  he  said. 

"Well,  I  really  couldn't  trust  it  to  any  one  else, 
could  I?"  said  Sydney.  "You  must  do  your  best 
with  Mamma,  you  know,  Duncan.  You've  really 
got  a  great  talent  for  managing  her !" 

"I'm  afraid  I  shall  have  lost  what  little  influ- 
ence I  had.  Your  going  off  like  this — your  drag- 
ging me  into  it — " 

"Oh,  no !  You  asked  to  come !  You  questioned 
me  till  I  was  obliged  to  confess  the  truth.  You're 
always  practicing  the  cross-examination  of  people  in 
private  life." 

"Am  I?"  said  Duncan.  He  found  her  determined 
gayety — in  which  he  did  not  in  the  least  believe — 
slightly  jarring.  Of  course  it  was  easy  to  see  that 
she  was  preternaturally  excited.  In  fact,  he  had 
never  seen  her  so  excited  in  all  his  life.  She  was  so 
glad  to  go,  then  ?  So  untouched  by  the  faintest  sor- 
row at  leaving  him  to  his  solitude? 

"Now  you're  off.  Good-by,  my  dear  Sydney. 
Write  from  Paris  if  you  can."  He  wrung  the  little 
gloved  hand  thrust  out  of  the  window  towards  him. 

"Yes — yes — "  said  Sydney,  "good-by,  Duncan — 
thank  you  for  coming."  The  train  moved  like  a  long 
winding  serpent  out  of  the  station. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

FOR  Sydney  the  long  journey  passed  in  a  kind  of 
uneasy  restless  dream.  It  is  true  that  her  brain 
continued  to  register  impressions  of  all  the  scenes 
through  which  she  passed,  but  they  were  mere  sur- 
face things;  her  subconscious  mind  was  deeply  and 
wholly  preoccupied  with  the  climax  towards  which 
that  journey  was  bearing  her.  So  much  hung  upon 
the  issue  or  it.  Sometimes  she  even  felt  as  if  her 
whole  future  life  were  at  stake,  would  depend  upon 
whether  her  endeavor  to  see  Clive  again  proved  suc- 
cessful or  not. 

There  was  a  thick  fog  in  the  Channel,  enfolding 
it  like  a  close  blanket  and  swallowing  up  all  other 
shipping  from  sight,  making  it  necessary,  too,  for 
the  steamer  to  emit  a  continuous  succession  of  ex- 
cruciating sounds  to  warn  other  craft  of  its  approach. 
Many  ofthe  passengers  were  extremely  nervous,  and 
Sydney  noticed  to  her  astonishment  a  young,  very 
well-dressed  woman  who  became  almost  hysterical 
with  fear  as  the  boat  plodded  its  way  across  to 
France. 

Well,  the  delay  would  not  affect  her  very  much, 
since  she  had  arranged  to  sleep  in  Paris.  She  was 
to  travel  by  a  through  train  to  Venice,  that  left  Paris 
on  the  following  day  in  the  late  afternoon.  She 
would  spend  one  whole  night  in  the  train  and  part 
of  two  days — less  than  thirty  hours  in  all,  unless  it 
were  very  late.  Venice!  .  .  .  She  thought  of  it 
now  with  an  anguish  of  longing  that  was  almost 
fantastic.  Two  months  had  gone  by  since  she  had 
left  it,  and  now  it  was  nearly  six  weeks  since  More- 

388 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     389 

ton  Cochrane's  death.  She  wondered  if  she  would 
find  Roma  still  at  the  Lido.  Of  course,  it  was  get- 
ting late  in  the  season;  most  of  the  villas  and  hotels 
would  be  closed  for  the  winter,  but  it  was  possible 
that  she  might  prefer  to  spend  the  first  weeks  of  her 
widowhood  in  retirement  there.  It  was  difficult  for 
Sydney  to  picture  Roma  as  a  widow.  .  .  . 

It  was  night  when  she  left  France  behind  her, 
passing  the  Alps,  that  looked  so  cold  and  majestic 
with  their  crown  of  snows  in  the  moonlight.  Dawn 
was  breaking  faintly  over  the  Lake  of  Geneva  as 
the  train  skirted  it,  and  the  pale  silhouettes  of  snow- 
capped mountains  seemed  to  lift  themselves  from 
a  sea  of  mist  towards  the  brilliant  colorless  sky. 
Sydney  fell  asleep  again  as  the  train  bored  its  way 
through  tunnels  into  Italy.  It  was  nearly  midday 
when  they  reached  Domodossola,  and  she  heard  the 
familiar  sound  of  Italian  voices,  and  felt  the  thrill 
of  being  once  more  in  Italy.  She  was  so  happy 
then,  that  she  felt  as  if  everything  must  go  well.  .  .  . 

The  sun  was  shining  as  she  passed  the  Lakes,  that 
were  turquoise-colored  under  that  serene  sky,  with 
groves  of  flaming  chestnut  woods  clothing  the  slopes 
above  them.  Milan — Brescia  (the  words  of  The 
old  Patriot  came  inconsequently  to  her  mind  and  she 
quoted  them  softly  to  herself: 

"Thus  I  entered  Brescia,  and  thus  1  go — 
In  such  triumphs  people  have  dropped  down  dead." 

In  such  triumphs  people  have  dropped  down  dead — 
yes,  she  thought  it  wouldn't  hurt  perhaps  to  die  like 
that  in  one  splendid  moment  of  success!) — Verona 
— Padua — she  would  soon  be  in  Venice  now;  every 
moment  the  train  was  drawing  nearer  to  it. 

She  would  go  to  bed  as  soon  as  possible  to-night, 
so  as  to  have  a  long  rest.  Then  to-morrow — not 


390     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

too  early — she  would  take  the  steamer  and  cross 
the  lagoon  to  the  Lido,  where  she  would  at  least 
hear  news  of  Roma.  Her  heart  sank  a  little  at  the 
thought  of  that  meeting — it  was  bound  to  be  a  very 
disagreeable  one — and  she  might  still  insist  upon 
preventing  her  from  seeing  Clive.  Sydney  knew 
that  it  would  require  all  her  courage  to  go,  and 
that  she  must  doff  her  mantle  of  pride  before  she 
started.  .  .  . 

Now  the  lights  of  Venice  were  dimly  visible 
through  the  thin  silver  fog  that  hung  over  the 
lagoon.  The  autumn  air  was  chilly.  There  was  a 
circle  of  mist  over  the  moon.  On  each  side  of  the 
train  the  pale  and  luminous  waters  of  the  lagoon 
stretched  like  a  vast  plain. 

Sydney  put  her  head  out  of  the  window  and 
strained  her  eyes  to  catch  the  first  glimpse  of  those 
shadowy,  nearing  towers. 

She  was  a  little  giddy  when  she  descended  from 
the  train,  but  the  fresh  cold  air  revived  her  as  she 
went  in  a  gondola  to  her  old  abode.  There  had 
been  no  time  to  warn  the  landlady  that  she  was  com- 
ing, but  surely  it  would  not  take  long  to  get  things 
ready  and  even  supply  her  with  a  little  food.  She 
wasn't  hungry;  she  only  longed  to  go  to  bed  and 
sleep — and  sleep.  .  .  . 

She  climbed  the  flights  of  steep  stairs  that  led 
up  to  her  apartment  and  rang  the  bell.  After  some 
little  delay,  which  rendered  her  nervous  lest  there 
should  be  no  one  to  admit  her,  the  old  woman  opened 
the  door.  She  lifted  up  her  hands  with  a  gesture  of 
surprise  and  pleasure  when  she  saw  Sydney  standing 
there,  and  her  eager,  warm  welcome  touched  the  girl, 
who  was  in  the  mood  to  be  sensitive  to  trifles.  Yes, 
she  would  bring  her  something  to  eat  at  once;  she 
had  bread  and  coffee  and  eggs  and  some  red  wine  if 
the  signorina  wished  for  it.  Sydney  gratefully  ac- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     391 

cepted,  and  went  into  her  bedroom.  It  looked  a  lit- 
tle bare,  and  it  was  very  cold  and  cheerless.  Her 
locked  trunks  were  standing  there  just  as  she  had  left 
them.  She  went  to  the  window  and  threw  it  open 
and  pushed  back  the  wooden  shutters.  Across  the 
lagoon,  whose  waters  were  faintly  touched  to  silver 
by  that  misty  moonlight,  she  could  see  the  lights  upon 
the  Lido  burning  almost  spectrally.  Was  Roma 
there?  And  Clive?  .  .  . 

She  was  too  tired  to  do  much  unpacking.  Just 
her  things  for  the  night.  .  .  .  She  swallowed  some 
food  and  then  got  into  bed.  Her  longing  for  sleep 
was  almost  like  an  illness.  But  it  was  not  easy  to 
sleep  that  night.  Tormenting  visions  of  what  to- 
morrow might  bring  teased  her  brain.  The  sound 
of  the  train  was  still  in  her  ears,  and  the  grinding 
of  the  wheels  made  her  feel  as  if  her  head  were 
turning  with  them.  She  tossed  restlessly,  a  prey  to 
anxiety  and  suspense.  But  to-morrow  she  would  at 
least  learn  the  truth.  To-morrow  she  would  go  to 
the  Lido  and  confront  Roma.  It  would  be  very 
hard  and  difficult,  but  it  was  necessary — it  had  to 
be  done.  She  could  not  submit  to  being  thrust  into 
the  darkness  away  from  Clive  without  a  single  word 
of  explanation  from  him. 

In  the  morning  the  sight  of  her  white  ravaged 
face  in  the  mirror  almost  deterred  her  from  going. 
Her  eyes  and  skin  looked  dull  and  lusterless.  What- 
ever beauty  she  had  was  under  eclipse. 

Venice  looked  sad  and  morne  under  this  melan- 
choly November  sky  with  the  light  fog  still  cling- 
ing about  the  lagoon  and  obscuring  the  islands.  It 
had  an  austere  aspect,  very  different  from  its  radiant 
summer  mood.  The  steamers  were  plying  to  and 
from  the  Lido;  she  could  see  them  pass,  congested 
as  always  with  passengers.  A  gondola  went  by  and 
its  black  shape  disappeared  into  the  mist.  A  man- 


392     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

of-war  was  anchored  in  the  Giudecca  Canal.  She 
saw  again  the  beautiful  dome  of  Santa  Maria  della 
Salute.  And  on  the  golden  ball  at  the  point  of  the 
Dogana  the  familiar  figure  of  Fortune  holding  out 
its  cloak  moved  in  response  to  the  wind.  Nothing 
was  altered,  except  that  Moreton  was  dead,  and 
Roma's  love  for  her  had  changed  into  hatred.  Of 
Clive  she  dared  not  think. 

It  was  nearly  eleven  o'clock  when  she  went  down 
to  the  Riva  and  took  a  steamer  to  the  Lido.  It 
was  not  very  crowded  at  that  hour,  and  she  found 
a  seat  forward,  where  the  cool  air  touched  her  face 
and  revived  her.  As  she  drew  nearer  to  the  island, 
she  thought  that  it  looked  beautiful  with  its  trees 
wearing  their  brave,  golden  autumn  array.  South- 
ward she  could  see  the  irregular  line  of  the  coast 
colored  in  faintest  violet,  and  to  the  north  the  Alps 
seemed  to  hang  in  mid-air,  their  summits  all  cov- 
ered with  snow. 

Her  troubled  imagination  began  to  picture  all 
kinds  of  calamities  that  might  have  occurred  during 
these  past  weeks  of  silence.  Since  the  news  of 
Moreton's  death,  no  word  of  the  Cochranes  had 
reached  her.  There  had  been,  as  she  knew,  a  re- 
crudescence of  the  spagnuola,  as  the  Italians  call  the 
fatal  Spanish  influenza,  in  many  places.  Clive  and 
Roma  might  both  be  dead,  for  all  that  she  knew. 
But  no,  she  reflected  quickly,  there  would  have  been 
at  least  a  paragraph  in  the  paper  to  announce  the 
death  of  Mrs.  Moreton  Cochrane  had  it  followed 
that  of  her  husband  with  such  tragic  swiftness. 
Well,  whatever  had  happened,  she  would  soon  know. 
What  was  it  that  Duncan  had  said?  His  words 
recurred  to  her  uncomfortably  now:  "I've  an  idea 
there  is  a  very  bad  quarter  of  an  hour  waiting  for 
you  in  Venice.  .  .  .  He  had  wanted  to  save  her 
from  it,  and  she  had  refused  to  be  saved.  But  she 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     393 

had  a  sudden  wish  then  that  Duncan  could  have  been 
with  her. 

When  she  reached  the  Lido  she  walked  towards 
the  Villa  Roma.  The  acacias  still  wore  their  fragile 
foliage,  that  looked  now  like  golden  coins,  and  a 
faint  gleam  of  sun  illuminated  the  long  avenue  to  a 
bright  splendor.  The  plane-trees  were  shedding 
their  large,  crisp,  substantial  leaves,  and  the  little 
dark  pendent  balls  decorated  the  half-stripped 
boughs.  When  she  came  in  sight  of  the  high  iron 
gates,  her  heart  beat  a  little  faster,  and  she  felt 
that  she  had  scarcely  strength  to  proceed.  Yes, 
Duncan  was  right,  she  oughtn't  to  have  come;  she 
hadn't  the  courage.  .  .  . 

Sydney  looked  timidly  up  at  the  house.  It 
showed  signs  of  habitation.  Some  of  the  windows 
were  open,  and  a  faint  wreath  of  smoke  curled  lazily 
up  from  one  of  the  chimneys.  Some  wicker  chairs 
were  in  the  loggia ;  she  was  relieved  to  see  that  no 
one  was  sitting  there.  If  Roma  caught  sight  of  her 
she  might  give  an  order  that  she  was  not  to  be  ad- 
mitted. Roma  was  ever  afraid  of  a  scene.  She  had 
no  fancy  for  being  confronted  by  her  victims  after 
their  downfall. 

Sydney  stood  there  irresolutely.  A  bush  of 
mimosa  near  the  gate  was  already  in  blossom,  and 
its  powerful  scent  filled  the  air  and  made  her  feel 
almost  faint.  Between  the  boughs  of  the  pines  she 
could  see  the  long  blue  line  of  the  Adriatic  glim- 
mering in  the  sun.  She  rang  the  bell,  waited,  heard 
the  faint  click  that  signified  the  drawing  back  of  the 
latch,  and  pushed  open  the  gate. 

A  flower-bed  covered  completely  with  a  mass  of 
scarlet  salvias  blazed  like  fire  near  the  house.  A 
low  hedge  of  veronica  was  decked  with  its  small  pur- 
ple pyramids  of  bloom,  and  some  butterflies  had  set- 
tled there  and  were  opening  and  shutting  their  dark 


394     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

scarlet-marked  wings.  They  were  "Red  Admirals" 
of  coarse.  .  .  .  She  passed  a  bed  of  violets;  their 
perfume  mingled  with  that  of  the  mimosa,  making 
the  very  air  fragrant.  Now  she  was  near  the  door, 
and  she  glanced  up  at  the  room  that  had  once  been 
hers.  She  thought  of  that  wet  day  when  Clive  had 
first  wandered  lazily  in  to  look  at  the  portrait  of 
Roma.  A  little  nonchalant  and  disdainful  at  first, 
then  suddenly  interested  and  warming  to  enthusiasm. 
Then  all  the  other  days.  .  .  .  The  ,day  when  he  had 
made  her  go  and  sit  on  the  sands  with  him  and  told 
her  that  he  loved  her.  She  choked  back  a  sob.  To 
see  Clive,  was  now  all  that  she  needed.  .  .  .  Just 
to  see  him.  Not  to  reproach  him.  Not  to  plead. 
Only  to  look  upon  his  dear  face  and  listen  to  his 
musical,  charming  voice. 

Overhead  the  pines  looked  lustrously  green 
against  the  deep  lapis  of  the  sky.  It  was  a  day  of 
summer,  the  beautiful  sad  summer  that  belongs  to 
St.  Martin. 

A  manservant  whom  she  had  never  before  seen, 
opened  the  door. 

"Is  the  signora  at  home?"  asked  Sydney.  Her 
voice  was  not  perfectly  controlled,  and  surely  it  was 
the  strong  mingled  scent  of  mimosa  and  violets  that 
was  making  her  head  swim  so  that  she  almost  feared 
she  would  fall  to  the  ground. 

"La  signora  non  riceve"  said  the  man  courteously. 

"Does  not  receive?"  repeated  Sydney.  "Oh,  but 
I  think  perhaps  she  will  receive  me.  .  .  ." 

She  took  out  her  card-case  and  gave  a  card  to  the 
man,  saying  in  her  pretty  halting  Italian:  "Please 
give  this  card  to  the  signora." 

The  strong  sunlight  hurt  her  eyes.  The  scent  of 
the  mimosa  was  overpowering.  She  felt  almost 
faint  with  suspense  as  the  man  departed  with  her 
card. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     395 

Roma  would  be  angry  with  her  for  coming.  She 
had  never  seen  her  angry,  for  Roma  had  methods  of 
gaining  her  own  way  without  displays  of  wrath. 
In  emergency  she  was  cool,  calculating,  decisive. 

The  man  returned. 

"La  signora  non  riceve.  .  .  ." 

This  time  she  was  aware  of  a  touch  of  determina- 
tion in  his  voice  as  if  the  orders  he  had  received  had 
been  very  explicit. 

"Is  ...  is  the  signorino  here?"  she  asked  des- 
perately. Not  a  second  time  would  she  go  away 
without  a  word. 

"Si,  signorina" 

"Give  him  this  card.  .  .  ."  She  scribbled  on  it: 
"Clive — I  want  to  see  you  for  a  moment.  Please 
come." 

The  man  took  the  card,  and  in  .his  face  she  dis- 
cerned a  kind  of  insolent  surprise  at  her  persistency. 

"S'accomodt,"  he  said,  indicating  a  chair  in  the 
hall. 

It  was  almost  an  exact  repetition  of  he*  former 
visit,  except  that  on  that  occasion  Moreton  had  been 
still  alive,  lying  ill  in  the  darkened  room  upstairs 
with  Clive  in  close  attendance,  night  and  day. 

Little  sounds  came  to  her.  The  ticking  of  the 
lacquer  clock  .  .  .  how  well  she  remembered  it. 
The  distant  sustained  chatter  coming  from  the  serv- 
ants' quarter.  The  song  of  a  bird  in  the  trees  out- 
side, a  melancholy  autumn  chirrup,  so  different  from 
its  spring  melody.  Five  minutes  passed.  .  .  .  Ten 
minutes.  .  .  .  Perhaps  Roma  and  Clive  were  con- 
sulting together;  Clive  in  favor  of  seeing  her  and 
giving  her  a  word  of  explanation;  Roma  totally, 
coldly  opposed  to  such  a  proceeding.  Sydney  felt 
as  if  her  fate  were  trembling  in  the  balance. 

There  was  a  step  on  the  stair  and  Clive  Cochrane 
came  into  the  hall. 


396     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

"Miss  Flood,  Mrs.  Cochrane  has  sent  me  to  tell 
you  that  she  regrets  she  cannot  possibly  receive  you. 
She  thinks  you  have  made  a  mistake  in  coming  here 
at  all.  Did  you  not  receive  her  letter?" 

Was  this  Clive  speaking — her  Clive — who,  last 
time  she  had  seen  him,  had  clasped  her  to  him  and 
kissed  her?  Sydney  listened  as  one  stunned;  she  was 
not  conscious  of  any  pain,  only  a  numbness  that 
seemed  like  death. 

Miss  Flood — Mrs.  Cochrane  .  .  .it  was  long 
since  Clive  had  used  those  formal  names  in  speak- 
ing to  her.  She  said  in  a  low  controlled  voice : 

"I  had  her  letter.  But  I  wanted  some  explana- 
tion— "  She  looked  up  at  Clive.  He  did  not  meet 
her  eyes,  but  gazed  straight  in  front  of  him.  His 
face  was  very  stern;  something  of  its  old  boyish- 
ness had  gone  out  of  it.  He  did  not  look  happy, 
and  she  knew  that  he  was  angry  and  was  trying  to 
control  that  anger. 

She  cried  out  suddenly  as  if  the  words  had  been 
wrung  from  her  by  some  superior  force : 

"You  told  me  not  to  lose  faith  ...  in  your  love 
for  me.  .  .  ." 

"I  think  you  ought  to  have  realized  that  circum- 
stances have  very  much  changed.  My  cousin's 
death  has  made  a  great  difference  to  me.  But  to 
show  you  how  entirely  useless  it  is  for  you  to  come 
here  asking  for  explanations,  I  will  tell  you  what  is 
known  only  to  a  very  few  people.  Roma  and  I  were 
married  three  days  ago  in  Switzerland.  We  re- 
turned here  yesterday." 

He  made  a  movement  as  if  to  leave  the  house  and 
conduct  her  to  the  gate. 

There  was  no  kind  of  compassion  in  his  tone  as 
he  pronounced  the  fatal  words.  There  was  no  ef- 
fort to  soften  the  blow  for  her.  He  had  returned 
to  his  old  allegiance,  and  he  had  made  it  a  perma- 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     397 

nent  one.     His  only  anxiety  now  seemed  to  be  to  get 
•rid  of  Sydney  as  quickly  and  as  efficaciously  as  pos- 
sible. 

She  followed  him,  stumbling,  down  the  path. 

"My  wife  was  very  much  opposed  to  my  telling 
you  of  our  marriage,  Miss  Flood,"  he  continued, 
"but  for  once  I  felt  that  I  could  not  yield  to  her 
wishes.  I  consulted  her  before  coming  down  to  see 
you." 

Roma  and  I  were  married  three  days  ago.  .  .  . 
The  whole  world  seemed  to  be  spinning  about  her  in 
darkness,  and  Sydney  felt  as  if  her  limbs  would  give 
way.  She  had  hardly  strength  to  follow  Clive  in 
his  evident  haste  to  the  gate.  But  she  kept  a  firm 
hold  over  herself.  In  her  blanched,  set  face  there 
was  no  sign  of  emotion.  She  had  the  desire,  com- 
mon to  proud  natures,  to  hide  her  mortal  hurt.  In 
betrayal  of  it  there  would  be  a  second  and  deeper 
agony. 

The  sunlight  hurt  her  like  fiery  darts  falling  upon 
her  face.  That  terrible  sky  dazzled  her;  it  was 
almost  as  blue  as  it  had  been  in  summer.  She  never 
knew  quite  how  she  reached  the  gate,  while  those 
words  echoed  maddeningly,  deafeningly,  in  her  ears : 
Roma  and  I  were  married  three  days  ago.  .  .  . 

They  must  have  been  married,  the  day  she  left 
London  to  embark  upon  this  foolish,  futile  journey. 
Duncan  seemed  to  have  foreseen,  with  his  strangely 
acute  discernment,  that  the  adventure  would  end  in 
disaster.  He  had  tried  to  hold  her  back;  they  had 
all  tried  to  hold  her  back.  Duncan  .  .  .  Father 
John.  .  .  .  She  was  being  heavily  punished  now.  If 
she  had  only  waited  she  would  indubitably  have 
heard  the  truth  in  due  time. 

Clive  was  holding  the  gate  open,  waiting  for  her 
to  pass  through. 


398     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

"I  am  sorry  you  returned  to  Venice,"  he  was  say- 
ing, "but  naturally  Roma  imagined  she  had  made  her 
meaning  perfectly  clear,  that  she  didn't  wish  to  re- 
ceive you  again.  I  certainly  thought  the  letter  was 
sufficiently  explicit." 

"I  did  not  feel  from  Mrs.  Cochrane's  letter  that 
she  was  aware  of  the  truth,"  said  Sydney,  lifting  her 
head  a  little.  She  looked  at  Clive  with  a  faint  dis- 
dain. He  was  a  coward  then — he  had  not  dared 
to  inform  Roma  of  how  matters  stood  between  him- 
self and  Sydney.  He  was  ashamed  of  that  love  that 
had  sprung  up  between  them — a  young,  fresh,  beau- 
tiful thing  that  might  have  borne  such  happy  fruit. 
They  had  loved  each  other,  and  now  she  felt  al- 
most as  if  she  were  looking  upon  the  face  of  a 
stranger.  A  stranger  who  nevertheless  had  the 
power  to  inflict  cruel  hurt  upon  her. 

The  sacrifice  had  been  exacted.  It  had  not  been 
left  to  her  to  make  the  choice  between  the  claims 
of  faith  and  those  of  human  love.  In  the  midst  of 
this  present  grief  she  felt  the  profound  spiritual  con- 
solation of  that  thought.  Almighty  God  sometimes 
showed  his  nearness  to  a  soul  by  causing  it  to  suffer. 
That  was  perhaps  why  St.  Teresa  had  prayed  for 
suffering.  "Either  to  suffer  or  to  die!"  .  .  . 

"Good-by,"  she  said.  Her  throat  was  dry  and 
seemed  to  close  upon  the  word.  She  did  not  hold 
out  her  hand  to  him;  she  felt  that  she  could  endure 
anything  in  the  world  rather  than  that  conventional 
touch  of  hand  to  hand.  She  bowed  slightly  and 
her  face  was  quite  impassive  as  she  went  out  of 
the  gate. 

Cnve  watched  her  for  a  second — there  was  some- 
thing at  once  so  mature  and  so  childish  about  her. 
The  vision  of  that  slight,  light  figure  stepping  swiftly 
away  half-fascinated  him.  What  pluck  and  grit 
she  had — if  this  had  really  hurt  her !  But  no — he 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON     399 

couldn't  believe  that,  the  whole  episode  had  been  so 
little  removed  from  a  schoolgirl's  sentimental  wor- 
ship. .  .  . 

He  pushed  the  gate  so  that  it  shut  and  locked 
automatically,  and  went  back  to  the  house.  Then 
he  ran  lightly  up  the  stairs  to  Roma's  sitting-room. 

She  held  out  her  arms  to  him,  and  he  went  and 
knelt  by  her  side.  Her  dark  eyes  were  very  bright 
as  they  rested  upon  him.  She  was  a  changed  Roma 
— a  Roma  all  softened  with  love.  .  .  . 

"Darling,  was  she  very  tiresome?     Tell  me.  .  .  ." 

"Oh,  she  wasn't  tiresome.  I  just  told  her,  and 
she  went  away  .  .  .  she  hardly  said  anything.  She 
didn't  seem  to  blame  any  one."  He  thought  of  that 
proud  little  figure  walking  away  down  the  road,  the 
childish  head  held  very  high,  with  something  of  a 
woman's  pride.  He  could  not  deny  to  Sydney  a 
certain  wistful  admiration. 

"You  were  very  foolish  and  weak,  Clive,  ever  to 
let  her  imagine  you  cared  about  her.  .  .  ." 

"Yes,"  he  admitted.  "But  now  we  need  never 
think  about  that  again.  It's  all  over  and  I'm  glad 
I  saw  her.  It  was  better." 

"She  was  such  a  silly  little  thing,"  said  Roma 
Cochrane.  "1  blame  myself  for  ever  persuading  her 
to  come  with  us.  But  she  looked  such  a  child,  and 
she  seemed  so  restless  and  ambitious  and  unhappy, 
and  then  there  was  that  awful  mother.  ...  I  did 
it  for  the  best." 

"She  was  the  very  last  of  poor  old  Moreton's 
discoveries,"  said  Clive. 

"You  never  did  really  care  for  her,  did  you, 
Clive?"  Roma  asked,  a  little  persistently. 

Her  face  was  very  near  his,  and  Clive  drew  her 
to  him  and  kissed  her.  "Never — never,  Roma 
darling,"  he  whispered. 


SYDNEY  walked  down  the  road  under  the  shade  of 
the  plane-trees,  whose  harsh  dry  leaves  were  scat- 
tered everywhere,  and  crackled  audibly  as  she  trod 
upon  them.  She  did  not  once  glance  back  at  the 
villa,  for  she  was  conscious,  amid  all  the  raging 
tumult  of  her  thoughts,  of  one  distinct  wish,  and 
that  was  never  again  to  look  upon  the  face  of  Clive 
Cochrane.  He  had  married  Roma.  He  had  not 
even  troubled  to  write  to  put  an  end  to  an  engage- 
ment which  he  now  tacitly  denied  had  ever  existed. 
It  was  true  that  he  had  been  perfectly  conversant 
with  the  exact  terms  of  Roma's  last  letter  to  her.  It 
was  perhaps  at  his  own  request  that  Roma  had  come 
to  see  her  that  day  in  Venice,  and  had  explained  to 
her  casually  the  closeness  of  the  ties  which  bound 
Clive  to  herself  and  Moreton. 

His  silence  was  now  accounted  for.  All  that 
had  been  ambiguous  and  puzzling  was  made  abun- 
dantly clear.  They  were  married,  these  two, — -her 
friend  and  the  man  who  had  promised  to  marry 
her.  They  were  alike  lost  to  her.  She  had  known 
for  some  time  that  Roma's  friendship  for  her  was 
a  thing  of  the  past,  but  the  faithfulness  of  Clive's 
love  she  had  never  really  doubted. 

This  time  she  had  no  sense  of  unreality  such  as 
she  had  experienced  that  day  in  London  when  she 
had  read  Roma's  letter.  She  was  no  longer  like 
an  onlooker  gazing  in  stupefied  horror  at  the  tor- 
tures of  a  writhing  fellow-being  whom  she  did  not 
identify  as  herself.  Now  body  and  soul  were 
wrapped  in  an  enveloping  mist  of  pain,  and  as  the 

400 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     401 

pain  drew  near  to  her  heart  in  concentric  waves 
of  agony,  she  had  a  feeling  which  she  fantasti- 
cally imagined  must  resemble  that  of  approaching 
death.  .  .  . 

She  remembered  nothing  of  that  journey  back  to 
Venice  in  the  steamer.  It  was  almost  empty,  and 
she  sat  with  her  eyes  fixed  upon  Venice,  upon  the 
beautiful  dispositions  of  its  towers  and  domes,  ris- 
ing as  it  were  sheer  from  the  water,  like  some  long- 
sunken  city  that  had  been  miraculously  salvaged. 
Some  sea-gulls  were  flying  low  over  the  lagoon,  and 
as  the  November  sunlight  touched  their  wings,  they 
seemed  whiter  than  the  snows  that  lay  upon  the 
summit  of  the  Alps.  The  gray  palaces  on  the  Grand 
Canal  were  touched  here  and  there  with  frugal  gold 
as  the  sunlight  smote  them.  Between  the  twin  rows 
of  them  the  Canal  ran,  deep,  jade-colored,  stirred 
momentarily  into  white  froth  as  a  motor-boat 
churned  its  tempestuous  way  through  those  quiet  wa- 
ters. Everywhere  the  foliage  of  trees  and  shrubs 
was  touched  to  brilliant,  fiery  reds  and  golds  by  the 
hand  of  autumn.  Only  the  darkness  of  pines  and 
cypresses  and  ilex-trees  remained  unchanged;  the 
passing  of  the  seasons  could  not  affect  their  somber 
majesty. 

Sydney  went  back  to  her  own  apartment.  She 
lay  down  on  the  sofa  and  closed  her  eyes,  for  she 
was  very  tired.  Her  thoughts  continued  to  revolve 
in  the  same  maddening  circle.  Roma  should  have 
been  more  explicit.  Clive  should  have  written  to 
break  off  their  engagement.  If  they  had  only  been 
frank  with  her,  she  would  have  been  saved  from 
making  this  mad,  disastrous  journey.  For  how 
could  she  go  home  again  in  the  face  of  this  humili- 
ating experience  that  had  humbled  her  to  the  very 
dust?  She  could  never  hold  up  her  head  again. 
When  the  marriage  of  Clive  and  Roma  should  be- 


402     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

come  known — for  such  exciting  gossip  as  that  was 
bound  to  leak  out  very  soon — they  would  all  guess 
at  the  reason  of  her  abrupt  return.  She  could  not 
go  back,  she  must  stay  somewhere  in  Italy  alone, 
wounded  to  the  death.  The  portrait  of  Roma, 
which  she  had  taken  out  that  morning,  was  watching 
her  with  attentive,  mocking  eyes.  She  rose  and 
impatiently  turned  it  with  its  face  to  the  wall.  She 
could  not  bear  to  look  upon  it,  to  remember  with 
what  love  she  had  painted  it.  She  saw  for  the  first 
time  that  unawares  her  brush  had  given  something 
of  its  latent  ruthlessness  to  that  beautiful  face,  some- 
thing too  of  its  intrinsic  hardness  and  power. 

Long  ago  in  London  Roma  had  told  her  that 
many  women  had  fallen  in  love  with  Clive.  She  had 
spoken  of  it  lightly  as  a  phase  through  which  they 
had  passed,  almost  as  if  it  had  been  a  process  of 
initiation.  Now  Sydney  knew  that  there  had  been 
a  profound  warning  in  those  carelessly  uttered  words, 
as  if  Roma  had  wished  to  protect  her  from  some 
possible  danger  that  might  arise  if  she  came  to 
stay  with  them.  But  Clive  had  won  her  love  with 
his  own.  It  had  been  for  her  a  slow  growth,  re- 
luctantly awakened,  and  only  really  attaining  to  a 
passion  of  conscious  devotion  on  the  day  he  had 
told  her  that  he  loved  her  and  asked  her  to  marry 
him.  And  surely  he  had  loved  her.  She  clung  piti- 
fully now  to  that  conviction.  He  had  loved  her, 
and  Roma  discovering  it  had  perhaps  urged  him  to 
advise  Sydney  to  leave  the  villa.  When  once  she 
had  gone  away  it  was  perfectly  easy  for  Mrs.  Coch- 
rane  to  effect  the  rest.  She  could  and  did  keep 
them  apart,  the  fortuitous  incident  of  Moreton  s 
illness  aiding  her  in  the  execution  of  her  plan,  for 
it  would  have  been  doubly  difficult  for  Clive  to  get 
away  under  such  circumstances.  Roma  had  always 
held  Clive  as  it  were  under  a  spell.  And  now  three 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     403 

days  ago  she  had  become  his  wife.  Moreton  had 
been  dead  but  a  few  weeks,  but  Roma  had  cast  pru- 
dence to  the  winds.  She  was  ever  indifferent  to  gos- 
sip, to  public  opinion;  she  was — as  Clive  had  once 
said — a  law  unto  herself.  And  perhaps  deep  down 
in  her  heart  there  had  been  some  little  rear  of 
Sydney.  .  .  . 

But  had  Clive  ever  seriously  intended  to  marry 
Sydney?  Had  he  been  only  amusing  himself,  as  he 
had  done  countless  times  before,  only  to  be  rescued 
by  Roma  from  a  folly  she  quickly  taught  him  to  rec- 
ognize? This  time  there  had  been  at  least  suffi- 
cient earnestness  about  him  to  make  Roma  feel  some 
little  alarm.  Perhaps  it  had  come  as  a  surprise 
to  her  that  little,  quiet  Sydney  Flood,  desperately  in 
earnest  and  with  so  little  to  say,  should  have  occu- 
pied the  position  of  a  serious  rival.  But  when  she 
had  begun  to  suspect  it — perhaps  that  very  day  when 
he  had  asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  because  they 
had  neither  of  them  been  able  completely  to  conceal 
their  young,  exultant,  triumphant  happiness — Syd- 
ney's doom  was  sealed.  Sydney  could  hear  her  say- 
ing in  her  high,  sweet  voice:  "So  you  really  want 
to  leave  us?  Of  course  I  know  we're  rather  gay, 
worldly  people,  and  we  haven't  much  time  to  take 
you  about.  Still,  it's  been  nice  having  you."  But 
the  next  moment  she  remembered  with  a  pang  that  it 
was  Clive  who  had  first  suggested  she  should  go 
away.  That  was  before  he  had  ever  spoken  of  love 
to  her.  He  had  hinted  that  Roma  was  getting  tired 
of  having  her  there.  It  was  so  difficult,  looking 
back,  to  discern  the  false  from  the  true.  There 
was  so  much  of  cruel  and  perplexing  intrigue  and 
confusion  in  it  all. 

Then  another  scene  swept  before  her  eyes.  Clive 
in  the  little  green  garden  with  its  grass  and  statues 
that  overlooked  the  Grand  Canal,  reading  aloud 


404     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

from  the  Paradiso  to  herself  and  Roma.  She  re- 
membered it — she  had  so  often  read  that  Canto 
over  and  over  again  for  fear  of  forgetting.  That 
meeting  of  Dante  with  the  spirits  in  the  sphere  of 
the  moon.  They  had  attained  Heaven,  but  not  to 
the  highest  heaven  because  they  had,  although 
through  no  fault  of  their  own,  violated  their  vows. 
They  were  happy,  desiring  nothing  beyond  what 
they  had  received,  since  in  their  present  sphere  they 
were  accomplishing  the  Will  of  Almighty  God. 
E  la  sua  volontate  e  nostra  pace.  They  were  in 
heaven,  and  their  will  was  for  all  eternity  united  to 
the  Divine  Will.  Therein  lay  their  peace.  Their 
souls  held  no  other  desire. 

And  Sydney  remembered,  too,  how  dive  had 
looked  up  with  oddly-shining  eyes  and  said:  "If  we 
really  believed  that  too — "  And  Roma,  looking  at 
him  with  one  of  her  penetrating,  attentive  glances, 
had  answered  coldly:  "I  don't  suppose  Cath- 
olics who  do  believe  it  are  any  happier  than  we 
are." 

"It  isn't  a  question  of  happiness — it's  a  question 
of  peace,"  Clive  had  said,  and  then  he  had  gone  back 
to  his  reading,  while  Sydney  had  slipped  away,  un- 
able to  bear  any  more.  She  had  always  thought 
that  hearing  him  read  those  words  had  sown  the 
first  little  seed  of  faith  in  her  heart.  That  and  the 
light  on  the  lagoon,  that  had  Beckoned  to  her  on  the 
night  of  her  first  arrival  in  Venice.  She  could  see 
it  now,  the  little,  dark,  roughly-made  shrine  with  its 
penthouse  roof,  the  pale  Madonna  within,  the  blue 
lamp  burning  all  through  the  night,  like  a  beacon 
to  guide  lonely  travelers.  .  .  . 

Sydney  reviewed  her  experiences  critically  and 
closely  that  day  after  her  return  from  the  Lido.  She 
saw  that  her  rash  obstinacy  had  been  of  the  kind 
that  Shakespeare  describes  as: 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     405 

".  .  .  a  wild  dedication  of  ourselves 
To  unpath'd  waters,  undreamt  shores;" 

predestined  almost  from  the  first  to  disastrous  fail- 
ure. If  she  had  only  been  contented  with  those 
opportunities  to  work,  had  concentrated  her  mind 
and  will  upon  her  art,  she  believed  that  things  would 
have  gone  better.  But  it  was  her  spiritual  faith- 
lessness that  had  been  the  worst  thing  of  all;  her 
obedience  to  Clive's  wishes  in  defiance  of  the  dictates 
of  judgment  and  conscience.  She  could  see  these 
things  clearly  enough,  but  all  the  time  her  eyes  were 
dry  and  her  heart  felt  like  a  stone.  People  had 
failed  her;  love  had  immensely  failed  her.  She  was 
young,  and  yet  life  seemed  to  be  for  her  at  an  end. 
She  shrank  from  the  thought  of  going  home.  But 
she  must  leave  Venice  as  soon  as  possible — of  that 
she  was  quite  certain.  She  would  not  stay  there  a 
day  longer  than  was  necessary.  That  beautiful  and 
bright  chapter  of  her  life  must  be  closed,  and  she 
wondered  whether,  when  she  was  quite  an  old 
woman  and  had  perhaps  forgotten  this  grief,  she 
would  have  the  courage  to  return  to  the  city  that 
despite  all  things  held  her  heart  so  fast. 

Later  in  the  day  she  put  on  her  hat  and  coat  and 
went  out.  She  felt  restless,  and  a  longing  for  fresh 
air  seized  her.  She  must  go  out  and  walk  until  she 
was  tired.  She  would  lose  herself  in  the  labyrinth 
of  narrow  calli,  and  perhaps  she  would  revisit  some 
of  her  favorite  churches. 

The  afternoon  was  fine,  and  overhead  the  sky  was 
still  blue.  Venice  lay  bathed  in  the  mellow  sun- 
shine of  November  that  can  be  such  a  perfect  month 
in  Italy.  The  sunlight  brought  out  all  the  beauti- 
ful pale  tints  of  the  houses  and  domes  and  towers, 
in  their  perfect  grouping.  There  was  a  freshness 
in  the  air  as  if  the  wind  in  coming  to  Venice  had 


406     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

passed  lightly  over  distant  mountain  snows.  Sydney 
was  struck  afresh  by  the  clear,  definite,  unsmudged 
outlines,  the  sharp,  accurate  drawing,  the  grouping 
of  light  and  shade,  the  color  that  lurked  everywhere. 
But  while  her  brain  noted  those  effects  from  sheer 
habit  of  minute  attention,  her  thoughts  were  really 
with  Roma  and  Clive.  She  looked  once  across  to 
the  Lido,  and  the  tears  filled  her  eyes.  Over  there 
were  the  two  people  whom  she  had  loved  better  than 
all  the  world.  They  were  utterly  estranged,  dead 
to  her  for  the  rest  of  her  lite.  She  choked  back 
a  hard  sob,  and  walked  on  blindly,  not  knowing 
where  she  went. 

She  walked  indeed  until  she  was  ready  to  drop. 
The  sun  had  set  and  the  blue  dusk  was  filling  the 
city  like  some  ethereal  liquid,  punctured  by  the  bril- 
liancy of  the  electric  lamps.  The  streets  were 
crowded  as  always  at  that  hour,  and  people  moved 
slowly  on  the  narrow  pavements.  Officers  with 
medals  and  wound  stripes,  soldiers  in  the  familiar 
grigioverde  uniform;  family  groups  of  parents  and 
children;  amorous  couples  gazing  into  each  other's 
eyes — the  dark,  tender  eyes  of  the  South;  slender, 
graceful  Venetian  girls  with  their  silken  shawls 
drawn  closely  about  their  shoulders.  There  were 
priests,  too,  in  black  cassocks  and  broad-brimmed, 
black  beaver  hats.  There  were  tired-looking  women 
carrying  slumbering  infants  and  perhaps  leading  an- 
other child  scarcely  older  by  the  hand.  Sydney  knew 
the  scene  by  heart — \t  was  a  typically  Venetian  one. 
But  this  evening  she  felt  that  she  alone  in  all  this 
vast  concourse  was  solitary.  She  had  no  one,  and 
she  felt  friendless.  And  in  the  melancholy  of  her 
mood  she  began  to  doubt,  perhaps  for  the  first  time, 
her  own  power  as  an  artist.  She  was  going  to  be 
a  failure  after  all!  She  hadn't  anything  of  the  in- 
herent brilliancy  of  actual  genius.  She  hadn't  even 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     407 

a  good,  sound,  useful  work-a-day  talent.  Moreton 
had  lost  all  faith  in  her  long  before  his  death;  she 
knew  that  she  had  disappointed  him.  She  could 
see  him  now — his  odd,  crumpled-looking  face  with 
its  dark,  shaggy  beard,  the  crooked,  contemptuous 
smile,  the  keen,  cold  eyes  that  never  softened  except 
when  they  looked  upon  Roma  and  Clive.  How 
passionately  he  had  loved  them  both,  and  how 
quickly  they  had  forgotten  him!  .  .  . 

Suddenly  down  a  little  narrow  canal  she  saw  a 
gondola,  and  in  a  flash  she  recognized  the  uniform 
worn  by  Alessio.  Sitting  in  the  gondola  were  Clive 
and  Roma.  It  was  as  if  her  very  thought  of  them 
had  caused  them  to  materialize.  They  were  sitting 
close  together,  and  even  in  the  gathering  darkness 
she  was  able  to  see  that  their  hands  were  inter- 
locked. A  light  from  a  neighboring  palace  sud- 
denly illuminated  them  so  that  Sydney  could  see 
Roma's  face  quite  distinctly  under  the  small  black 
hat  she  was  wearing.  It  seemed  to  her  then  that 
all  that  was  Italian  in  Roma  was  strongly  empha- 
sized; she  was  beautiful  as  Italian  women  are  beau- 
tiful, and  possessed  too  something  of  that  arrogance 
belonging  to  the  children  of  an  ancient  race,  that 
often  characterizes  them.  Sydney  could  see  that 
their  faces  were  turned  towards  each  other.  They 
were  thinking  of  themselves,  of  each  other,  and  not 
at  all  of  her.  She  had  been  brushed  aside,  as  one 
brushes  aside  a  fly.  She  could  see  now  that  they 
were  smiling.  .  .  .  The  gondola  went  slowly  under 
the  bridge,  Alessio  uttered  the  long,  wild,  melancholy 
cry  of  warning,  and  gondola  and  occupants  shot 
round  the  corner  and  vanished  out  of  her  sight. 

Sydney  walked  on  a  little  way  and  then  entered  a 
church  whose  door  was  standing  open.  Some 
twenty  people  were  assembled  there  reciting  the 
Rosary  with  a  priest,  who  together  with  an  acolyte 


4o8     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

was  kneeling  in  the  sanctuary.  The  monotonous 
repetition  of  the  prayers  soothed  Sydney.  She  knelt 
down  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  Tabernacle. 

When  the  Rosary  was  finished,  the  Litany  of 
Loreto  was  recited,  and  then  a  little  procession  en- 
tered the  sanctuary  with  a  priest  who  wore  a  golden- 
colored  cope.  The  Blessed  Sacrament  was  placed 
in  the  Monstrance  and  lifted  to  a  throne  above  the 
Tabernacle  so  that  all  might  gaze  upon  it.  Those 
present  bowed  their  heads,  and  Sydney  followed 
their  example.  She  had  a  strong  reeling  that  she 
had  been  brought  thither  to  offer  something. 
A  sacrifice?  A  burnt-offering?  .  .  .  And  to 
Whom?  .  .  . 

The  Altar  was  brilliantly  illuminated  with  the  soft 
yet  bright  glow  of  many  candles.  The  shining, 
golden  pyramids  of  flame  burned  steadily.  Clouds  of 
incense  were  being  wafted  upward,  and  the  strong 
perfume  of  it  filled  the  church.  When  Sydney 
glanced  round  her,  she  saw  that  the  building  was 
now  nearly  filled  with  people,  all  kneeling  in  devout 
attitudes.  They  had  perhaps  been  passing  by  on 
their  evening  walk,  and  had  come  in  for  this  little 
space  of  prayer  and  worship  and  praise.  Among 
tnem  were  two  nuns,  their  pale  faces  framed  in  white 
coifs  and  their  heavy  black  veils  falling  about  their 
shoulders.  Their  calm  faces  attracted  Sydney; 
their  grave  eyes  were  fixed  upon  the  Monstrance  with 
mingled  adoration  and  love.  E  la  sua  volontate  e 
nostra  pace.  .  .  .  The  words  came  back  forcibly  to 
her  mind.  That  complete  and  selfless  union  with 
the  Divine  Will  must  surely  be  the  mainspring  of 
their  lives. 

Sydney  felt  then  that  she  was  the  sole  survivor 
of  some  tremendous  cataclysm  that  had  abruptly  and 
without  warning  descended  with  appalling  violence 
upon  her  life,  destroying  its  beauty,  its  fair  promise. 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     409 

She  had  wanted  to  die,  feeling  that  only  death  could 
rob  her  of  this  sense  of  bitter  abasement  and  hu- 
miliation. But  now  something  told  her  of  another 
solution  of  even  such  a  problem  as  hers.  She  had 
come  to  one  of  those  "dim  lulls  of  unapparent 
growth"  when  the  soul  asserts  its  peculiar  claim. 
Happiness?  Had  she  ever  been  truly  happy? 
Not,  certainly,  in  those  restless,  feverish  days  of  her 
engagement  to  Clive;  the  very  secrecy  of  it  had 
robbed  her  of  happiness,  though  she  had  experienced 
certain  joys  that  might  perhaps  never  be  repeated. 
But  each  one  of  those  days  had  deepened  her  fear 
for  the  future,  her  nervous  dread  of  discovery  that 
might  end  it  all;  even  the  possibility  of  his  ultimate 
faithlessness  had  not  been  wanting  to  her  imagina- 
tion. And  now  that  the  blow  had  fallen  with  the 
force  of  a  death-dealing  wound,  it  had  brought  with 
it  a  sense  of  finality,  a  termination  to  those  pecu- 
liar fears,  that  almost  resembled  a  strange  suffering 
peace.  She  looked  again  at  the  kneeling  figures  of 
those  women  who  had  renounced  the  world  and  its 
joys,  perhaps  even  in  their  youth,  for  the  love  of 
God.  They  had  found  peace  even  as  Dante's  happy 
souls  had  found  it,  in  the  daily  and  hourly  accom- 
plishment of  His  Will.  Just  as  their  bodies  were 
trained  to  that  admirable  motionlessness  as  they 
knelt  in  prayer,  their  minds  to  adoring  contempla- 
tion, so  their  souls  were  disciplined  to  that  beautiful 
submission.  .  .  . 

As  she  knelt  there,  she  had  a  fantastic  thought 
that  it  was  in  reality  Clive  who  had  brought  her 
thither.  His  words,  so  idly  uttered,  as  he  read  to 
herself  and  Roma  in  the  garden !  He  had  been  con- 
cerned chiefly  with  the  beauty  of  them — the  almost 
proverbial  music  of  those  liquid  vowel  sounds.  He 
had  only  glanced,  in  passing,  at  their  spiritual  con- 
tent. Clive  lived  for  the  day  and  the  hour.  But 


4io     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

it  was  he,  nevertheless,  who  had  taught  her  that  im- 
mortal truth :  And  His  Will  is  our  peace.  .  .  . 

Sydney  became  slowly  aware  of  the  Divine  Pres- 
ence. It  permeated  the  church  with  its  mystical  at- 
mosphere of  holiness,  sanctity,  and  love.  It  flowed 
around  her  like  a  flood  of  love  whose  waves  sup- 
ported and  uplifted  her  soul.  Something  of  peace 
came  back  to  her  heart.  She  felt  that  she  had  re- 
covered something  that  she  had  lost,  something  of 
most  precious  worth,  that  anointed  and  healed  her 
wounds.  She  knew  now  something  of  the  sweet  and 
irresistible  violence  by  which  souls  are  arrested  and 
prisoned  forever  in  that  divine  love.  It  was  the 
loving  violence  that  had  prompted  those  words,  "and 
compel  them  to  come  in."  It  seemed  as  if  an  al- 
most invidious  love  surrounded  such  souls,  so  that 
they  were  not  permitted  to  wander  alone  in  the  dark- 
ness any  more.  Faith  lit  a  lamp  to  guide  them. 
The  Sword  of  the  Spirit  pierced  them.  She  had 
the  sense  of  being  gathered  up  and  enfolded  by  most 
loving  Arms  that  would  never  let  her  go. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

SYDNEY'S  things  were  in  readiness;  she  had  fin- 
ished her  packing,  and  in  another  two  hours  she 
would  have  left  Venice.  She  had  been  there  only 
four  days,  and  she  had  made  no  definite  plans  for 
the  future.  She  thought  perhaps  she  would  go  as 
far  as  Milan  and  spend  a  few  days  there.  Beyond 
that  she  did  not  look. 

She  had  written  a  short  letter  to  her  mother,  tell- 
ing her  that  she  was  leaving  Venice  and  that  she 
would  send  her  new  address  as  soon  as  possible.  She 
made  no  mention  of  returning  home.  But  even  that 
step  in  her  new  mood  had  come  within  the  range  of 
possibilities. 

It  suddenly  occurred  to  her  that  she  would  have 
time  to  pay  a  farewell  visit  to  St.  Mark's,  and  she 
went  downstairs  and  walked  quickly  to  the  Piazza. 
The  day  was  fine,  and  there  were  a  great  many 
people  walking  about  or  sitting  at  the  Tittle  tables 
outside  the  cares.  The  flocks  or  plump  pigeons  were 
preening  their  iridescent  wings  in  the  sun.  The  pale 
gold  of  the  domes  stood  out  delicately  against  the 
sky.  Sydney  went  into  the  church,  and  going  close 
to  the  altar  where  was  the  famous  shrine  of  Our 
Lady,  she  knelt  for  some  moments  in  prayer. 

That  peace  which  had  come  to  her  on  that  evening 
when  she  felt  that  nothing  could  raise  her  from  the 
dust  whither  Clive's  hands  had  thrown  her,  remained 
with  her  still.  She  did  not  suffer  any  more,  but  her 
face  was  grave  and  pale  as  if  she  had  passed  through 
an  experience  that  had  taken  from  her  something  of 
the  joyousness  of  youth. 

411 


4i2     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

She  did  not  stay  there  very  long;  she  was  afraid 
of  missing  her  train,  and  it  would  take  nearly  an 
hour  to  go  to  the  station  in  a  gondola.  She  was 
hurrying  back  and  had  just  come  in  sight  of  the 
door  of  her  abode  when  she  saw  the  figure  of  a  man 
approaching  it  from  the  opposite  direction.  His 
unmistakably  English  appearance  was  the  first  thing 
that  arrested  her  attention,  but  as  she  drew  nearer 
he  halted,  and  she  saw  to  her  amazement  that  it  was 
Duncan  Turner. 

He  moved  a  step  towards  her. 

"Duncan — "  she  said,  and  held  out  her  hand  to 
him.  The  sight  of  a  friendly  face  in  her  solitude 
made  the  tears  spring  to  her  eyes. 

He  caught  her  hand  and  held  it  thus  for  a  mo- 
ment. 

"My  dear — my  dear — "  he  said,  "you  must  for- 
give me  for  following  you.  But  I  had  such  a  strong 
presentiment  that  things  were  not  going  well — " 
He  stopped  short,  and  saw  with  dismay  that  her 
eyes  were  full  of  tears  and  her  lips  trembling. 

"Yes — it's  all  been  a  dreadful  mistake,  and  I'm 
on  the  point  of  leaving  Venice.  I've  ordered  a  gon- 
dola to  come  in  about  half  an  hour  to  take  me  to 
the  station." 

"Were  you  going  home?"  said  Duncan. 

"No.  But  you'll  come  in,  won't  you  ?  I  can  ex- 
plain better.  .  .  ." 

She  led  the  way  into  the  house  and  up  what  seemed 
to  him  interminable  flights  of  steep  stone  stairs.^  At 
the  top  Sydney  paused  and  opened  the  door  with  a 
latch-key.  He  followed  her  into  the  studio,  where 
her  neat  luggage  was  standing  in  readiness. 

"Come  and  look  at  the  view,  Duncan,"  she  said, 
simply. 

They  stood  side  by  side.  At  their  feet  the  broad 
lagoon  lay  all  silver  and  blue  in  the  sunlight.  Heavy 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     413 

black  gondolas  skimmed  with  extraordinary  speed 
to  and  fro.  A  crowded  steamer  passed.  Near  by 
the  beautiful  island  group  of  San  Giorgio  was  all 
rose-colored  in  the  strong  autumn  sunlight ;  and  upon 
the  golden  ball  of  the  Dogana  the  exquisite  figure 
of  Fortune  holding  out  its  cloak  moved  in  response 
to  the  light  breeze  that  came  over  the  lagoon.  Far 
oft  they  could  see  the  Lido,  faintly  dimmed  by  the 
mist  that  clung  about  its  shores. 

Duncan  did  not  speak.  He  was  looking  at  that 
wonderful  view,  but  all  the  time  he  was  thinking  only 
of  Sydney,  and  of  all  her  mysterious  life  here  in 
Venice.  He  wondered  what  part  that  "dark,  in- 
triguing woman,"  as  he  mentally  dubbed  Roma  Coch- 
rane,  had  played  in  that  life.  And  Clive?  He  re- 
pressed a  rising  jealousy  of  that  man  with  his  hand- 
some, debonair,  arrogant  face.  What  part  had  he 
played  in  it?  What  had  they  both  done  to  produce 
such  a  change  in  little  Sydney  Flood? 

"Won't  you  tell  me,  my  dear  Sydney?"  he  said, 
and  took  her  hand. 

"It  was  Clive. — "  she  said.  "We  were  engaged 
last  summer  when  we  were  staying  over  there  at 
the  Lido.  But  after  I  left  he  didn't  come  to  see  me, 
and  then  when  I  went  to  England  he  didn't  write, 
so  I  knew  there  was  something  dreadfully  wrong. 
Roma  did  write  once,  but  I  didn't  believe  her — I  felt 
that  she  didn't  know  the  truth.  Clive  was  always 
afraid  lest  they  should  find  out — about  our  engage- 
ment— and  disapprove.  Duncan — I  couldn't  bear 
it  any  more — the  silence — the  uncertainty."  She 
choked  back  a  sob  and  looked  at  him  wildly.  "I 
went  there — the  day  after  I  arrived.  And  they  are 
married — Clive  and  Roma  .  .  .  they  were  married 
the  very  day  I  left  London.  And  I  ...  I  wanted 
to  die." 

"But  your  life  is  only  just  beginning,  Sydney," 


414     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  L4GOON 

he  said,  and  there  was  a  grave  tenderness  in  his 
voice  that  soothed  her. 

She  looked  up.  "Yes — I've  learnt  that.  I  have 
seen  how  God  strips  the  soul  He  wants  to  call  into 
His  service.  And  I'm  not  really  unhappy  and  suf- 
fering any  more.  It  was  only  just  telling  you  that 
made  me  want  to  cry." 

He  looked  across  the  lagoon.  A  sail  beautifully 
colored  in  blue  and  gold  came  into  sight.  He  said 
slowly : 

"What  you've  got  to  do  now  is  to  rebuild,  recon- 
struct. .  .  ." 

He  thought  of  some  fair  city  over  which  an  earth- 
quake has  passed,  destroying  all,  and  reducing  the 
fine  palaces  and  buildings  to  formless  ruins.  And 
it  required  patience  and  hope  to  rebuild.  But  she 
was  strong  enough  for  that  too.  He  saw  that  she 
was  being  guided  by  a  new  wisdom.  If  Venice  had 
done  nothing  else  for  her,  it  had  at  least  led  her  into 
the  way  of  peace. 

"I  saw  Moreton's  will  in  the  paper,"  he  said;  "he 
left  everything  between  his  wife  and  Clive  Cochrane. 
Mrs.  Cochrane  was  to  have  two-thirds,  and  his  very 
dear  cousin  and  adopted  son  one-third.  But  there 
were  conditions,  ruling  out  Roman  Catholics  or  any 
one  who  should  marry  a  Roman  Catholic.  I  don't 
fancy  those  conditions  will  disturb  either  of  them 
very  much,"  he  added. 

"Yes — he  made  that  will  during  his  last  illness. 
Roma  told  me  about  it,"  said  Sydney. 

Moreton's  whole  fortune  belonged  to  them 
both  now.  There  had  been  a  practical  as^well  as 
perhaps  a  sentimental  reason  for  that  swift  wed- 
ding. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and  a  man  ap- 
peared, to  carry  down  Sydney's  trunks.  She  and 
Duncan  followed  him  downstairs.  In  the  narrow 


THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON     415 

no  a  gondola  was  waiting,  rocking  ponderously  as 
the  water  sucked  fiercely  against  the  stones. 

Sydney  stepped  in.  "You'll  come  with  me  to  the 
station,  Duncan?"  she  said. 

"And  further  than  that  if  you'll  let  me,"  he  an- 
swered, taking  his  place  beside  her.  "I've  left  my 
bag  there,  because  I  thought  I'd  come  to  see  you 
first  before  taking  a  room  anywhere." 

"But  you  haven't  half  seen  Venice,"  she  protested. 

"I'll  come  back  and  look  at  it  another  time." 

They  were  on  their  way  to  the  station,  when  he 
turned  to  her  suddenly  and  said: 

"You  haven't  told  me  yet  where  you're  going." 

"To  Milan,"  said  Sydney,  "it's  not  a  very  long 
journey  from  here." 

"To  Milan?"  he  repeated  in  surprise;  "but  you 
don't  know  any  one  in  Milan !" 

"I  want  to  go  to  Father  John's  sister.  She  is 
a  nun  and  lives  in  a  convent  there.  1  think  I  should 
like  to  live  for  a  time  very  quietly  in  a  convent." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "that  sounds  a  good  scheme.  I'll 
take  you  there  if  you'll  let  me,  Sydney." 

"Yes,  thank  you,  Duncan.  It'll  be  nice  to  have 
you — you  prevent  me  from  thinking  too  much. 
Sometimes — I've  wanted  you — "  She  made  the 
statement  quite  simply,  but  it  caused  his  heart  to 
beat  a  little  faster  with  renewed  hope.  During  this 
past  week  hope  had  indeed  been  to  him  but  "a  timid 
friend." 

"But  afterwards,  when  you're  rested,  you'll  come 
back  to  London,  won't  you?"  he  said,  a  little  wist- 
fully. "Lady  Flood's  most  awfully  upset,  and  I'm 
afraid  I've  lost  her  good  opinion  forever,  although 
I  assured  her  that  I  had  been  a  most  reluctant  acces- 
sory. She  came  back  to  town  at  once,  and  even  had 
serious  thoughts  of  following  you  herself.  But  I 
begged  her  to  let  me  come  instead.  .  .  ." 


416     THE  LIGHT  ON  THE  LAGOON 

"Tell  her  I'll  come  back  as  soon  as  I  can,"  said 
Sydney.  She  paused  for  a  moment  and  then  added : 
"Duncan,  you're  very  good  to  me  and  I'm  not  worth 
it." 

There  was  something  in  his  steady,  unspoken  hom- 
age that  seemed  to  lift  her  from  the  dust  of  that  past 
humiliation,  and  restore  to  her  her  wounded  self- 
respect.  In  that  moment  she  felt  the  worth  and 
strength  of  his  love  as  never  before. 

"But,  you  see,  I  think  you  are,"  said  Duncan,  and 
his  voice  was  not  quite  steady  as  he  pronounced  the 
words. 

But  there  was  something  in  that  little  speech  of 
hers — a  gratitude  that  she  did  not  now  attempt  to 
hide — that  rewarded  him  for  his  long  and  patient 
waiting,  and  made  him  look  forward  to  her  return 
home  with  a  new  and  solid  conviction  that  this  time 
he  would  not  wait  in  vain. 

She  turned  to  him  abruptly  and  said : 

"Duncan,  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  the  light  on 
the  lagoon  ...  it  was  so  wonderful — so  mysteri- 


ous." 


"One  of  these  days  you  must  show  it  to  me,  dear 
Sydney,"  he  answered. 


THE   END 


PBINTED  BT   BENZIGEB  BROTHERS,   NEW  YORK 


BOOKS  OF  DOCTRINE,  INSTRUCTION, 

DEVOTION,  MEDITATION,  BIOGRAPHY, 

NOVELS,  JUVENILES,  ETC. 


PUBLISHED  BY 


BENZIGER  BROTHERS 


CINCINNATI 

343  MAIN  ST. 


NEW  YORK 
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MENT.   LIGUORI.    net,  $0.90. 
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HI.  THEOLOGY, 


LITURGY,     HOLY  SCRIPTURE,    PHILOSOPHY, 
SCIENCE,  CANON  LAW 


fcLTAR  PRAYERS.  Edition  A:  Eng- 
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ECCLESIASTICAL  DICTIONARY. 
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TURES. GIGOT.  net,  U$4.oo. 

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IV.  SERMONS 


CHRISTIAN  MYSTERIES.  BONO- 
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EIGHT-MINUTE  SERMONS.  DE- 
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net,  $9.00. 
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WOMEN.  SCHUEN-WIRTH.  net,  $3.50. 

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V.  HISTORY,     BIOGRAPHY,     HAGIOLOGY,  TRAVEL 


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RAMBLES  IN  CATHOLIC  LANDS. 
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ROMA.  Pagan  Subterranean  and  Mod- 
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Preface  by  CARDINAL  GIBBONS.  617 
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ST.  JOAN  OF  ARC.    LYNCH,  S.J.    Elus- 

trated.     net,  $2.75. 
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VI.  JUVENILES 

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TOM  PLAYFAIR;    OR,  MAKING  A 

START. 
CLAUDE   LIGHTFOOT;    OR,   HOW 


OUT. 

ETHELRED  PRESTON;  OR,  THE 
ADVENTURES  OF  A  NEWCOMER. 

THE  BEST  FOOT  FORWARD;  AND 
OTHER  STORIES. 

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THE    SHERIFF    OF    THE    BEECH 


THE  CAMP  BY  COPPER  RIVER. 
THE  RACE  FOR  COPPER  ISLAND. 
THE  MARKS  OF  THE  BEAR  CLAWS. 
THE  OLD  MILL  ON  THE  WITH- 

ROSE. 
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BEST  FOOT  FORWARD,  THE.     FINN,    FRED'S  LITTLE  DAUGHTER.    SMITH 

S.J.    net,  $1.50,  net,  $0.75. 

7 


FREDDY  CARR'S  ADVENTURES. 

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GARROLD,  SJ.  net,  $1.00. 
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NIX.    net,  $0.75. 
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HARRY   DEE.    FINN,   S.J.    net,   $1.50. 
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SPALDING,  S.J.  net,  $1.50. 
HIS  FIRST  AND  LAST  APPEARANCE. 


FINN,  S.J.    net,  $1.50. 

CKIEST 
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, 
HIS    LU 


YEAR,    FINN.    S.J. 
,     .. 
HOSTAGE  OF  WAR,  A.       BONESTEEL. 

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JACK.    By     a     Religious,    H.C.J.    net, 

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TAGGART.    net,  $1.00. 
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LIER.    net,  $0.75. 


8 


MELOR    OF    THE    SILVER    HAND. 

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MIRALDA.    JOHNSON,    net,  $0.75. 
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ON  THE  OLD   CAMPING  GROUND. 

MANNIX.    net,  $1.50. 
OUR    LADY'S    LUTENIST.    BEARNE, 

S.J.    net,  $1.50. 
PANCHO  AND  PANCHITA.     MANNIX. 

net,  $0.75. 

PAULINE  ARCHER  SADLIER.  net,  $0.75. 
PERCY  WYNN.  FINN,  S.J.  net,  $1.50. 
PERIL  OF  DIONYSIO.  MANNIX.  net, 

$0.75- 

PETRONILLA.  DONNELLY,  net,  $1.00. 
PICKLE  AND  PEPPER.  DORSEY.  net, 

PILGRIM  FROM  IRELAND.  CARNOT. 
net,  $0.75. 

PLAYWATER  PLOT,  THE.  WAGGA- 
MAN. net,  $1.00. 

POLLY  DAY'S  ISLAND.  ROBERTS,  net, 
$1.50. 

POVERINA.    BUCKENHAM.    net,  $1.00. 

QUEEN'S  PAGE,  THE.    HINKSON.    net, 

QUEEN'S  PROMISE,  THE.  WAGGA- 
MAN. net,  $1.00. 

QUEST  OF  MARY  SELWYN.  CLEM- 
ENTIA.  net,  $1.50. 

RACE  FOR  COPPER  ISLAND.  SPALD- 
ING, S.J.  net,  $1.50. 

RECRUIT  TOMMY  COLLINS.  BONE- 
STEEL,  net,  $0.75. 

RIDINGDALE  FLOWER  SHOW. 
BEARNE,  S.J.  net,  $1.30. 

ROMANCE  OF  THE  SILVER  SHOON. 
BEARNE,  S.J.  net,  $1.50. 

ST.  CUTHBERT'S.  COPUS,  S.J.  net, 
$1.50. 

SANDY   JOE.    WAGGAMAN.    net,   $1.30. 

SEA-GULL'S    ROCK.    SANDEAU.    net, 

SEVEN    LITTLE    MARSHALLS. 

NIXON-ROULET.    net,  $0.75. 
SHADOWS  LIFTED.      COPUS,  S.J.    net, 

SHEER  PLUCK.  BEARNE,  SJ.  net,  $1.50. 

SHERIFF  OF  THE  BEECH  FORK. 
SPALDING,  SJ.  net,  $1.50. 

SHIPMATES.       WAGGAMAN.    net,  $1.00. 

SUGAR  CAMP  AND  AFTER.  SPALD- 
ING, S.J.  net,  $1.30. 

SUMMER  AT  WOODVILLE.  SADLIER. 
net,  $0.75. 


TALES    AND     LEGENDS    OF    THE  TOM'S    LUCK-POT.    WAGGAMAN.    net, 

MIDDLE   AGES.    DE    CAPELLA.    net,  $0.75. 

$1.00.  TOORALLADDY.  WALSH,  net,  $0.75. 

TALISMAN,  THE.  SADLIER.  net,  $1.00.  TRANSPLANTING  OF  TESSIE.  WAG- 

TAMTNfJ  OF  POLLY  DOBSEY  net  GAMAN.  net,  $1.00. 

$"50  TREASURE  OF  NUGGET  MOUN- 

THAT  FOOTBALL  GAME.  FINN,  SJ.  T^.  TM»ART.  «*  *££• 

net  $i  50  1  WO  LITTLE  GIRLS.  MACK.  net, 

THAT  OFFICE  BOY.  FINN,  SJ.  net,  ,.^5- 

jj  so  UNCLE    FRANK  S    MARY.    CLEMEN- 

THREE  LITTLE  GIRLS  AND  ESPE-  ™-    "&  $^°WNc   OF   MARTORTF 

CIALLY  ONE.    TAGGART.    net,  $0.75.  U  wAor?£m     iS  fa  .7   MARJORIK 

TOLD  IN  THE  TWILIGHT.    SALOME.  VIOLIN  ^AKER.SmTH.    «f,    $0.75- 

net>  *1-00-     ,  WINNETOU,  THE  APACHE  KNIGHT. 

TOM  LOSELY;  BOY.    COPUS,  SJ.    net,  TAGGART.    net,  $1.00. 

Si-so.  YOUNG  COLOR  GUARD.    BONESTEBL, 

TOMPLAYFAIR.    FINN.  S  J.   net,  $1.50.  net,  $0.75- 

VTL  NOVELS 

ISABEL    C.   CLARKE'S    GREAT  EUNICE.    CLARKE,    net,  $2.25. 

NOVELS.    Each,  »«,  $2.25.  FABIOLA.    WISEMAN,    net,  $1.00. 

TH|UELSTONi:  FABIOLA'S    SISTERS.      CLARKE,     net, 

?ArSCTERENT'S  DAUGHTER.  F™  *EACON'  THE"          BRAC^ 

CHILDREN  OF  EVE.  FAUSTULA.    AVSCOUGH.    ««,  $2.25. 

WHOSDEENAMlAISLEGION.  5£^A&I3U£JI? 

FINE  CLAY  FORGIVE     AND     FORGET.    LJNGEN. 

PRISONERS'  YEARS.  «ffftJfe**V»     -rnrmxTc     „, 

THE  REST  HOUSE.  GRAPES    OF    THORNS'    WAGGAMAN. 


. 

ONLY  ANNE  *"'> 

THE  SECRET  CITADEL.  HEART    OF    A    MAN.    MAHER.    net, 

BY  THE  BLUE  RIVER.  Tjl2.'?,^  r,i7  ™r  ^    T. 

HEARTS  OF  GOLD.   EDHOR.  net,  $1.25. 

AGATHA'S  HARD  SAYING.    MULHOL-  HEIRESS  OF  CRONENSTEIN.    HAHN- 

LAND.    net,  $1.65.  HAHN.    net,  $1.00. 

ALBERTA:    ADVENTURESS.       L'£R-  HER  BLIND  FOLLY.   HOLT.    net,$i.2S. 

MITE.    8vo.    net,  $2.23.  HER  FATHER'S  DAUGHTER.    HINK- 

BACK   TO    THE    WORLD.    CHAMPOL.  SON.    net,  $2.25. 

net,  $2.25.  HER  FATHER'S  SHARE.    POWER,    net, 

BARRIER,  THE.     BAZIN.    net,  $1.65.  $1.25. 

BALLADS    OF    CHILDHOOD.     Poems.  HER  JOURNEY'S  END.    COOKE.     net, 

EARLS,  SJ.    net,  $1.50.  $1.25. 

BLACK  BROTHERHOOD,  THE.    GAR-  IDOLS;    or    THE    SECRET    OF    THE 

ROLD,  SJ.    net,  $2.25.  RUE  CHAUSSE  D'ANTIN.    DE  NAV- 

BOND  AND  FREE.   CONNOR,   net,  $1.00.  ERY.    net,  $1.25. 

"BUT  THY  LOVE  AND  THY  GRACE."  IN    GOD'S   GOOD   TIME.    Ross,    net, 

FINN,  SJ.    net,  $1.50.  $1.00. 

BY     THE     BLUE     RIVER.    CLARKE.  IN  SPITE  OF  ALL.    STANIFORTH,  net, 

net,  $2.25.  $1.25. 

CARROLL  DARE.    WAGGAMAN.    net,  IN  THE  DAYS  OF  KING  HAL.    TAG- 

SI.  25.  GART.    net,  $1.25. 

CIRCUS-RIDER'S         DAUGHTER.  IVY  HEDGE,  THE.    EGAN.    net,  $2.25. 

BRACKEL.    net,  $125.  KIND    HEARTS    AND     CORONETS. 

CHILDREN   OF    EVE.    CLARKE,     net,  HARRISON,    net,  $1.25. 

$2.25.  LADY     TRENT'S     DAUGHTER. 

CONNOR      D'ARCY'S     STRUGGLES.  CLARKE,    net,  $2.25- 

BERTHOLDS.    net,  $1.25.  LIGHT     OF     HIS     COUNTENANCE. 

CORINNE'S  VOW.     WAGGAMAN.    net,  HART,    net,  $1.00. 

$1.25-  "LIKE  UNTO  A  MERCHANT."    GRAY. 

DAUGHTER  OF  KINGS,  A.    HINKSON.  net,  $2.25. 

net,  $2.25.  LINKED  LIVES.    DOUGLAS,    net,  $1.25. 

DEEP    HEART,    THE.    CLARKE,    net,  LITTLE  CARDINAL.    PARR.    n«/,$i.6s. 

$2.25.  LOVE  OF  BROTHERS.    HINKSON.    net, 

DION  AND  THE  SIBYLS.    KEON.    net,  $2.25. 

$1.25.  MARCELLA      GRACE.    MULHOLLAND. 

ELDER   MISS  AINSBOROUGH,  THE.  net,  $1.25. 

TAGGART.    net,  $1.35.  MARIE  OF  THE  HOUSE  D'ANTERS. 

ELSTONES,  THE.    CLARKE,    net,  $3.25-  EARLS,  SJ.    net,  $2.25. 


MELCHIOR  OF  BOSTON.    EARLS,  SJ. 

net,  $1.25. 
MIGHTY    FRIEND,   THE.    L'ERMITE. 

net,  $2.25. 
MIRROR  OF  SHALOTT.    BENSON,    net, 

$2.25. 

MISS  ERIN.    FRANCIS,    net,  $1.25. 
MR.    BILLY   BUTTONS.    LECKY.    net, 

MONK'S  PARDON,  THE.    DE  NAVERY. 

net,  $1.25. 
MY   LADY   BEATRICE.    COOKE.    net, 

*i;°°- 

NOT  A  JUDGMENT.    KEON.   net,  $1.65. 
ONLY  ANNE.    CLARKE,  net,  $2.25. 

™£?  **•    *"• 

OUT  OF  BONDAGE.    HOLT,    net,  $z.2S. 


PASSING    SHADOWS.    YORKE.        net, 

PER'E  '  MONNIER'S  WARD.  LECKY. 

PILKINGTON  HEIR,  THE.    SADLIER, 

net  $r  2<- 

PRISONERS'  YEARS.        CLARKE,    net, 

«2  2, 

PRODIGAL'S  DAUGHTER,  THE,  AND 

OTHER  STORIES.  BUGG.  net,$i.5o. 
PROPHET'S  WIFE.  BROWNE,  we/,  $1.25. 
RED  INN  OF  ST.  LYPHAR.  SADLIER. 

net  $i  25 

REST  HOUSE,  THE.  CLARKE,  net,  $2.25. 
ROSE  OF  THE  WORLD.    MARTIN.    ne«, 

$1.25. 
ROUND  TABLE    OF   AMERICAN 

CATHOLIC  NOVELISTS,    net,  $1.25. 
ROUND  TABLE  OF  FRENCH  CATH- 

OLIC  NOVELISTS,    net,  $1.25. 
ROUND  TABLE  OF  GERMAN  CATH- 

OLIC  NOVELISTS,    net,  $1.25. 
ROUND  TABLE  OF  IRISH  AND  ENG- 

LISH  CATHOLIC  NOVELISTS,    net, 

$1.25. 
RUBY    CROSS,    THE.    WALLACE,    net, 

$1.25. 
RULER  OF  THE  KINGDOM.    KEON. 

net,  $1.65. 
SECRET     CITADEL,    THE.    CLARKE. 

net,  $2.35. 


SECRET    OF    THE    GREEN    VASE 

COOKE.    net,  $1.00. 
SHADOW    OF    EVERSLEIGH.    LANS- 

DOWNE.     net,  $1.00. 
SHIELD    OF    SILENCE.    HENRY-RUF- 

FIN.    net,  $2.25. 

SO  AS  BY  FIRE.    CONNOR,    net,  $1.25. 
SON  OF  SIRO,  THE.    COPBS,  SJ.    net, 

STORY  OF  CECILIA,  THE.     HINKSON. 

net,  $1.65. 

STUORE.    EARLS,  S.J.    net,  $1.50. 
TEMPEST  OF  THE  HEART.    GRAY. 

net  $i  25 

TEST  OF  COURAGE.    Ross,    net,  $1.00. 
THAT  MAN'S  DAUGHTER.    Ross,   net, 

CHOICE     SKINNER     net  £  i  oo 


*„„**.   „<, 

OF  SILAS-  DEVINE- 


TRUE  STORY  OF  MASTER  GERARD. 

SADLIER.    net,  $1.65. 
TURN  OF  THE  TIDE,  THE.    GRAY. 

net,  $1.25. 
UNBIDDEN     GUEST,    THE.    COOKE. 


niTriA1JC  AMTv  ,.,„,, 
T£E  CECDARS  AND  THE 
.  CANON  SHEEHAN.  net,  $2.25. 
UP  IN  ARDMUIRLAND.  BARRETT, 
T  J°-S-B-  nel>  $*  -^S- 

URSULA  FINCH.    CLARKE.    ««/,  $2.25. 
VOCATION  OF  EDWARD  CONWAY, 

THE.    EGAN.    net,  $1.63. 
WARGRAVE  TRUST,  THE.    REID,   net, 

$1.65. 
WAR   MOTHERS.    Poems.    GARESCHE", 

S.J.    net,  $0.60. 
WAY    THAT    LED   BEYOND,    THE. 

HARRISON,    net,  $1.25. 
WEDDING     BELLS     OF     GLENDA- 

LOUGH,  THE.    EARLS,  SJ.   net,  $2.25. 
WHEN     LOVE     IS     STRONG.    KEON 

net,  $1.65. 
WHOSE  NAME  IS  LEGION.      CLARKE. 

net,  $2.25. 
WOMAN  OF  FORTUNE,  A.   REID,  net, 

$1.65. 


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AUG  h  4  1994 
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A     000718838     6 


